A Dangerous Aficionado
by Pereybere
Summary: Temperance Brennan has acquired herself a fan she’d rather not have. And maybe a bodyguard is required! This story is now complete!
1. Prologue

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Summary: **Temperance Brennan has acquired herself a fan she'd rather not have.

**Rating: **Eventually a big dirty M. And a bigger, dirtier MA for those of you on my list. ('My list' sounds very ominous, doesn't it? Ha! Ha!)

**A/N: **For those of you reading 'Into the Wild' fear not! I haven't forgotten about it. I'm thinking… musing… plotting and conspiring. For now, I'm contenting myself with some Brennan angst and some sexy Booth playing hero. Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **If I run Fox, it would totally be closed down by now. I think there are television laws about the stuff I write!

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_Prologue_

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_She sometimes does yoga when no one is around._

_Most of the time she's alone, anyway. Her apartment isn't exactly the hotspot of her area. In fact, there has only ever been three people there that I've noticed; a guy she used to date, her friend and colleague, the brash dark haired girl with the naughty eyes and her partner. The partner. The most arrogant and self-confident asshole I've ever seen in my life._

_But he doesn't turn up there very often and I suspect she goes to extraordinary lengths of ensure he doesn't. She keeps herself distanced from many things, does Temperance Brennan. Life, being the first. She's so distracted by her work, whether it be as a scientist or a writer that she forgets to breathe, sometimes._

_I've made it my own personal goal to make her see how nice life can be. When she finally notices me. When she finally looks out her window and sees how I watch her. _

_I'm fascinated by her. By her mannerisms. _

_It started as a mere interest. Sometimes, when there was nothing on television and I'd read all the magazines I have, I'd watch her from my window. From my lounge I can see straight into hers and, if I peak out my bathroom window, I can see into her bedroom. _

_I don't do that very often because I know it's perverted and it's only wise to limit myself. Once a week, maybe. Any more and I'd be at risk of insanity. Dr Brennan has that kind of effect on people. Whether it be insanity caused by fury or insanity caused by longing, it's really not important. She's just good at causing havoc in people's lives without even realising._

_Take the asshole, for example. She doesn't know it, but he drives by her apartment twice a week. Usually at night. He never goes in because, like I said, she is careful to ensure he doesn't. So either he wants to speak to her or he wants to reassure himself that she's safe. If I had to take a gamble, I'd say the latter. The fool is infatuated by her. _

_Then there is her friend, who scolds her one a day, regularly, because she does foolish and dangerous things when she's a work. How do I know? Her books, of course. A badly veiled version of her life. The sexual tension between her heroine and the FBI agent makes me sick. When will she realise he'll never be enough for her? _

_Perhaps she's fascinated by the former military thing he had going on. The strapping Ranger with the rifle and the fatigues. _

_She's doing yoga today._

_She's wearing the old grey vest shirt and the navy leggings. I like the leggings. She's got the most fantastic calves, and generally, no one gets to see them because she only occasionally wears skirts. I see them more often than most; she always has tiny shorts on when she goes to bed. And a skimpier vest than that which she's wearing, now._

_When she stretches her torso tenses and her chest puffs out. Most people will never get to see this side of her and I know I am privileged. I think perhaps a sign was thrown my way when I decided to purchase this apartment. I had been reading her books for awhile, vaguely wondering that the dark-haired woman whose photograph graced the dustcover. She was elegant and poised and I admit, I was intrigued from the outset. But when I saw her, in the flesh, through the window I knew the apartment was destined to be mine._

_Her legs unfold and she stands, shaking her arms. Brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, she turns towards the bedroom and pulls her vest over head. When she disappears into the bathroom I know she's turning on the shower and, in a few seconds I know she'll emerge, go into her dresser and collect all her toiletries. _

_She doesn't disappoint._

_I see her, wearing only her bra and the leggings now. I cannot resist, I press my nose against the glass, my eyes wide, my mouth dry._

_She's exquisite. And she hasn't had a man in her bed for months! There may be hope for me. I cannot imagine why she wouldn't find me attractive. I might not that the same looks as her partner, but I'm not below average, either. Plus I am educated. She'd like that. _

_I take my cell, withhold my number and dial hers. I know it by heart. I've dialled it many times. I love to hear her voice when she answers, smoky and lovely. _

"_Hello?" I watch her still, phone pressed to her ear, one hand on her slender hip. She's pacing her bedroom, a frown marring her beautiful features and I want to reassure her. But I cannot give the game away. I cannot let her know I see her, otherwise she'll quickly deduct who I am, where I'm from and her Federal wannabe boyfriend will bust my door down. I know he's more than capable of it._

"_Hello?" She repeats. "Booth? Is that you?" When the line is silent she always asks if it's him. Does she think no one else exists in the world?_

_I snap my phone shut and she looks at her own phone, confused. Eventually she shrugs. Most people would be unnerved by silent callers. Not Temperance Brennan. Underneath all the unimaginable intelligence she is really quite naïve. It's amusing, in a way._

_And frustrating in others._

_I want to show her the world. I want to be the one she asks questions to, instead of him._

_One day I'll eliminate him from the picture entirely. And then I'll claim her for myself. _

_**A/N: A very short prologue to explain what's happening. Not exactly the most veiled story line ever. Basically Brennan is being stalked and there's only one man in the entire world who can make her feel safe. Guess who? Oh, Jeez, that's a toughie, huh? Safety and comfort lead to one thing; sex. Sex is what I am about. So, let me know. As always I am eager to know what you think. **_


	2. Brennan's Bad Day

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **I could maybe see Fox turning Brennan into the victim of a stalker. I cannot, however, imagine they'd put Booth and Brennan in a bed and show all the details. So I think it's pretty obvious I do not own them!

**Rating: **C'mon, you all know me by now; M

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me! I love the encouragement. A nice person asked me what a 'vest' was and I realise now that this is clearly a British thing. Thanks for asking because otherwise I really wouldn't have known. A vest is a sleeveless top with either thick or thin straps doesn't really matter. My second note is, and you'll probably notice when you read the story, but I'm trying a different angle this time. I'm delving into the dangerous territory of first person story telling. I hope you like it.

And so it begins…

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Chapter One

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Today has not started as a good day.

So far I've woken up thirty minutes late, thanks to power failure and the complete absence of an alarm clock. When the power came back on I discovered I had no coffee left and thus, I have not had any caffeine at all. I knocked over my favourite vase on my way to pick up the post. It was from Mongolia and quite possibly the most beautiful piece I own.

And now I'm looking at a hastily scrawled love-letter offering undying adoration and promises of being together forever. This partly amuses me. I'm a writer, not a movie star. But, I am partly annoyed because I am fairly certain some idiot at the Jeffersonian thinks this is hilarious. Or maybe not even the Jeffersonian. Maybe the FBI.

Booth is always making remarks about my love life.

I shove the letter into my bag, reach for my car keys and glance around my apartment. Aside from the missing vase, everything is on order.

Outside, the sun shines and I am vaguely aware of the tepid heat on my shoulders. I'm wearing the lightest shirt I own, simply because the June heat is already difficult to endure.

Unlocking my car, I think of the letter again. I cannot imagine how anyone other than Booth is responsible. It strikes me as something he might find amusing. As if I do not have enough to think about. As if my two careers, which essentially what I'm balancing, is not difficult enough without having to ponder over pathetic, school-kid letters. He relishes the idea of annoying me. I don't believe for a second that the note is a genuine expression of like. Just a pesky attempt to piss me off.

My stereo plays an old CD I'd ordered from Shanghai. I like how the melodic sounds relax my body and clear my mind. As I drive towards the Jeffersonian, I stop thinking about all of my morning mishaps and begin to concentrate, finally, on the day that looms ahead. There is a partial skeleton lying in the lab, carefully assembled by Zach, which needs urgent attention.

Hodgins has already examined the particulates and determined many a wonderful thing; the bones had fragments of limestone which indicated prolonged time spent within a quarry. Angela had been drawing the face last night when I left and, if she's as efficient as she usually is, she'll have it completed by today.

I begin to make my mental 'to do' list.

Identify the murder weapon.

Speak to Goodman about the artefacts found in the grave next to the bones.

Call Booth and ask what he'd uncovered thus far.

Since, of course, I have been strictly confined to the lab, thanks to an ankle sprain a week ago, Booth has been doing all the field work. Suddenly I realise how much I miss it. There's a certain degree of exhilaration, chasing bad guys, asking difficult questions and spending time, dare I admit it, with a partner whose brilliance is quite unlimited in his field.

The CD does not relax me anymore because I feel my thoughts veer off in directions I am fairly certain they're not allowed to take. It's a regular occurrence, these days and it worries me. I'm not quite sure how I ought to define my relationship with Seeley Booth.

He knows how to push my buttons and I'm not sure if I love it or hate it.

When I finally reach the Jeffersonian I notice his SUV is parked next to my spot. The spot that says Dr Gene Handover.

Had Handover been in the office this week he'd be enormously pissed off. But obviously someone has tipped Booth and he's taking liberties. Hardly a rare event.

I notice my office door is open and I hazard a guess at the occupant. I straighten my spine, unprepared to accept _this_ liberty.

Booth is sprawled out on my sofa, arm thrown across his eyes, dishevelled. Quite like Mr Debonair himself! He senses my approach and groans dramatically. I pull back my chair, flicking on my computer and pretending he doesn't exist. Booth doesn't like it when I do that. His presence commands attention because he's confident, brash and handsome. He is aware of being all three, too, which only adds to the frustration I feel at never being able to ignore him. Not really.

"You know, Bones," he says without opening his eyes. "Sex on the Beach is designed in a way that you never know you're putting alcohol into your body. It's clever." I type my password, sitting and crossing my legs. On the sofa, he moves an inch. "You there, Bones?" I sigh.

"Rough night, Booth?" I asked, disinterested. Or at least, I am feigning disinterest so he won't know how I am actually wondering who he was necking Sex on the Beach with.

"Ordinarily, I would say no. Ordinarily, of course, I would not have been drinking with fourteen aristocratic assholes, expected to talk politics for hours and-"

"The FBI dinner! I forgot!" I smile inwardly. Booth hadn't been drinking with some random woman! He'd been miserably sipping cocktails to numb the pain of having to endure the Bureau Brass!

"Charming. I never forget your Squint Dinners!" He says, indignant. I smile, properly this time. Until I see his eyes are opened and he's looking at me. Looking with a twinkle of amusement, awaiting my response. I shrug. What can I say? Then I remember the letter.

"Very amusing, by the way. The creepy love letter? Yeah… topped off my morning a treat." He's frowning, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and sitting. I roll my eyes. "Don't try the innocent act, Booth, no one else is as childish as you."

His mouth gapes. "Well… as much as I'd love to take responsibility for all things bad that have happened in your day I cannot accept the blame for this. What letters?" I click my tongue, aware at how disbelieving a sound. But there's a certain genuineness to Booth's tone and the way he looks at me with unveiled concern that creeps me out. He doesn't know what I'm talking about.

I try to brush it off. "Well it's not really _letters_ specifically. Just one. Obviously just another kid with a crush on me because of my books. Ha! Maybe even it's someone from in here." I chuckle a little, clicking continually on my mouse for no reason. If I look calm and collected he'll be less likely to freak out.

Booth paces, hands on his hips and I watch a thousand thoughts whirr though his mind. He's contemplating, imagining terrible things. I sigh.

"Bones would you stop clicking for two seconds, please?" His tone is bitingly abrupt and I stop, staring at him, now. My fingers tremble and I pull my hand away, wiping my palms on my pants. "What did this letter say, Brennan?" He asks, stopping at the foot of my desk. I've noticed on occasions how imposing Booth is. Today, it seems more so than usual.

"Just the usual ramblings, Booth. You know… _I love you, want to be with you, adore everything you do, watch you, wish you were mine_… nothing that I haven't received before-" Okay, I am lying because I have never received mail like this before. Sure, I'm a writer, people know me, they tell me I am good, that they like my stuff, but no one has every confessed emotions that should have been endearing and not creepy, on paper before.

"Watching you? Bones!" He grabs my arm, pulling me from my chair, his expression conveying a vast array of emotions, mostly fury. "Does your naivety know no bounds?" I am insulted, and pull away, our bodies adapting a fighting stance. Booth doesn't look like he's going to back down. But I'm determined. "When someone watches you, Bones, it means your privacy is being invaded. It's illegal it's-"

"You're so melodramatic, Booth," I say, snatching my lab coat off the back of my chair and pulling it on. As I button it, I watch him with my fiercest scowl. "I have things to do without you getting all legal and technical and-"

"Sensible? Brennan," I walk towards the door. He moves after me. "Brennan…" It's best if I ignore him. He'll calm down eventually. "Bones! Don't you dare walk out of this damn office!" I freeze, my shoulders stiff. Did he just _demand_ something of me? Did Seeley Booth just…?

I tilt my chin in defiance. "Stop being an idiot, Booth," I say, yanking my door open. He is beside me in a second, fingers around my wrist, tight and binding. Any other man and I'd offer a swift kick to the groin. But something stirs inside and I realise no one has ever tried to protect me. Not in a very long time, anyway. Perhaps this is why I don't slap him across the face and demand that he let me go.

"I'm not being an idiot, Bones," he bites. "I want to see the letter now. I am going to take it and I am going to have it analysed. Just," he adds, "as a precaution." I swallow. "Okay?" Across the lab a few people have turned to look. I want to defy him, really, I do. But his tone is sincere in it's concern, so instead I nod mutely.

"Okay."

Then he'll realise he's being an idiot. Then he'll realise there's nothing to it, and who knows, maybe someone in the Jeffersonian _is_ responsible.

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Next up? Booth's POV.

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	3. Booth's Concerns

**Title**: A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me.

**A/N**: This is Booth's POV. I'm going to alternate between point of views but I realised only one of them can hog the sex scene when it happens so I'm asking for a vote now. Whose POV do you want it to be? Thanks!

**Rating**: Given the author's note, I think it's obvious. M.

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Chapter Two

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So she brushes it off like I am some paranoid fool, blowing everything out of proportion. Just like Bones, really. The damn woman thinks she's invincible. She thinks nothing man made can harm her. Including man himself. Doesn't she realise that there are dangerous maniacs out there?

Sid thinks I'm jealous. He thinks I wish I had her guts of steel. He's wrong. What I feel when she races off after the bad guy or defies danger is not jealousy. It's pure, gut wrenching fear and I hate it. I hate how, when I was looking a terrorists and insurgents I remained calm but when a fucking squint acts heroine I feel my nerves jerk a little.

The FBI headquarters has become my home from home recently. Paperwork piles high on my desk, I haven't seen my son in what feels like forever and, while I should be signing off a case report I am standing in the crime lab while Jess Wilcox leans over the letter, examining the handwriting.

"Right handed male," she murmurs, running her latex clad fingertip over the paper. I nod. "Written with a blue gel pen. You know," Wilcox says, lifting her head long enough for her green eyes to twinkle in amusement. "Graphologists reckon they can write up an accurate profile of a serial killer just by examining the stroke of their letters. Amazing, huh?" I half nod, half shrug.

"Yeah, I can imagine Brennan's reaction if I tell her that. She hates psychology." Wilcox frowns, her expression almost sympathetic. It's common knowledge around those that I work with that Bones is a tough woman to work with.

"I should probably mention," Wilcox says, "this paper has only two sets of finger prints. Yours and the other I assume is Dr Brennan's. The person who wrote this did so with gloves. This fact alone," she pauses, "tells me that there's something not right." I glance at the scrawled hand writing, trying to picture the author in my mind. I conjure up imagines of serial killers known across the world and the pictures frighten me. "Do you have an envelope?"

"Bones might have it back at her lab," I say, digging in my pocket for my cell. Her number is on speed-dial, another sign that I'm too used to having Brennan in my life. She answers in four rings, breathless. I have a momentary disturbing image of what exertion she would be doing that would cause such breathlessness. I shake my perverse thoughts away, remembering that she's at the Jeffersonian and, under no circumstances, would professional Temperance Brennan be…

"Booth? That you?" I jolt.

"Bones, do you have the envelope?" I sense her confusion and I'm annoyed that she's forgotten about the letter so easily. She's undisturbed by her fan-mail. "The letter you received this morning, Bones!" I snap and instantly regret it. So maybe she isn't easily frightened and maybe since meeting her I've turned into an overprotective fool, but, God help me, I cannot help but feel frustrated at how blasé she is.

"It's in my bag. What's the big deal, Booth?" I release a sigh, thankful that she's not in front of me, otherwise I might have wrapped my fingers around her neck.

"I need it. Can you send a courier over with it?" She laughs on the other end of the phone and I feel chastised.

"You think I can honestly waste Jeffersonian resources sending a courier over to the FBI with an empty envelope?" I lift my eyes to the ceiling, and Wilcox knows I am exasperated. It's not an unusual feeling when I'm talking to Brennan.

"I need it, Bones," I say, moving to the door and into the corridor. She laughs.

"I don't really have a lot of time-" I snap.

"Wake up and smell the danger, Brennan! I need the God damn envelope, yeah? Send someone over with it now. I don't care which kid you send out, just get it here. Get it here now!" I snap my phone shut, dropping it into my pocket and ignoring how it vibrates as Brennan furiously calls me back. I do not relish the thought of her ranting or the big words she'll spout in defence so I turn back to Wilcox with a strained smile. "The envelope will be delivered shortly. In the meantime, can you see if there's anything else to find?" I feel the vibrating stop and I know Brennan will eventually relent and send the evidence over for analysis.

My office is stiflingly hot, so I flick on the desk fan, dropping into my seat with a sigh. I've never been so exhausted in all my time as an FBI agent and I am fairly certain Brennan is the majority of my hard work. For someone so frighteningly intelligent she is really quite dim sometimes. The real world, I know, will eventually bite her in the ass and, as her partner, it's my duty to protect her.

What have I done to deserve such a duty?

Perhaps this is destiny's way of repaying me for the atrocities I inflicted upon people as a Ranger. Maybe I am to protect Brennan from such horrific scenarios because of what I done. The thought does not comfort me. I feel suffocated and I pull my tie from my throat, dropping my head into my hands.

I have work to be doing. I cannot sit here, pondering over my obligation to Bones.

When I uncap my pen it hovers over my notes but my mind is blank. I am dimly aware that I should be concluding the last investigation I participated in. I know the clock is ticking the report is due in ninety minutes. But while the smallest part of my brain warns me, the majority thinks of the letter and how sickened I feel, knowing someone is infatuated by her. Knowing that someone is adoring her in such a mentally ill way.

In an hour I manage to write four paragraphs and my train of thought is interrupted by a brisk knock at my door. When I glance up, Zach Addy is standing between the outer office and mine, his expression his grim and he looks almightily pissed off. It seems Brennan has taught her assistant more than just the identification of human remains.

"I've been sent across town with this," he says, stepping into my office and tossing a clear plastic evidence bag on my desk. "And since I don't drive I had to get the bus. It's summer," he says, as if this explains everything. I take the envelope. The handwriting depicts Brennan's name and her address. "Summer, Agent Booth, is a pretty hot time. Especially when the bus has fault air conditioning." I watch the young genius as he paces my office, a sheen of perspiration coating his brow.

"Learn to drive, Zach," I say, pushing my chair back. As I move through the building, he follows me, almost running to maintain my strides. "Why did Bones send you? Shouldn't you be, like, buffing femurs or something?" The kid is indignant, his eyes shooting me a glare. I smirk. He's so easy to irritate and I know he likes me really. Somewhere inside the brilliant, twisted mind, he does.

"Because we only have one courier and she's sick. So as the person with the least seniority in the Jeffersonian-" I smile.

"Gotcha," I say. "Well, thanks, Zach. If you wait awhile I'll drive you back, huh?" He breathes a sigh of relief knowing he doesn't have to catch the bus back. Poor kid, I almost feel sorry for him. He's just as intelligent as the other squints yet, he'll never be like them until he finishes at least one of his doctorates.

Wilcox is examining someone else's handwriting when I step into the lab. She smiles a little, offering Zach a polite greeting. "Well, what do you have here, Booth? An apprentice?" I roll my eyes.

"This is Zach Addy," I explain. "He's Brennan's assistant at the Jeffersonian. He brought the envelope." Wilcox takes the evidence bag, peering through the plastic. I see her frown. A frowning professional always worries me because it means something is amiss. "What?" I ask, stepping to her side.

"No stamp," she points to the top corner, catching my eye. I am furious that I missed it. Brennan's situation has made me sloppy. I am not concentrating fully on my job and a sloppy Federal agent gets people killed. "No stamp means…" I nod, the full implication suddenly clear.

"He was there." I say, my body numb. "The bastard was at her apartment." Behind me, Zach stiffens and I see the worry in his expression. He is concerned for Brennan and I thank God at least one member of the Squint Squad recognises danger. Wilcox turns back to the envelope.

"The envelope is self-adhesive. There'll be no saliva, no DNA. I doubt there'll be any fingerprints, but I'll check. Give me an hour, Booth. I'll let you know." I nod, turning to Zach.

"Right, lets go," I know my report is due upstairs soon, but I ignore the nagging in my brain. "I need to kick your boss's ass."

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Reviews are always welcome ) And don't forget, who owns the sex scene?

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	4. A Violation

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters are not mine. Nuh… uh.

**Rating**: Eventually M.

**A/N: **I mentioned Sting herein. I don't actually like this song, I have to say. But the lyrics fit… so anyway. Review. You know I like reviews. Ooh, and, the top vote at the minute for the sex scene is the stalker. Well, actually, it's a tie between Booth and the stalker. I am intrigued, the idea is tugging on my imagination.

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"Would you stop following me, please?" I snap, striding down the hallway to my apartment. He's not far behind, and when I stop at my front door, he's at my side in an instant.

"No can do, Bones," he says, glancing to his left, then his right like a paranoid fool. The hallway is empty. There is no where for someone to hide. No plants, no drapes. I am tempted to sneak into my apartment while he's not looking and slam the door. But I expect his reflexes have been specially trained for such attempts.

Kicking off my shoes, I flick on the light and listen as Booth eased the door shut, turning the lock and fastening the chain. I suspect he's not going to make an effort to leave, just yet.

"What?" I say, dropping my keys into the wooden bowl where I keep all the things that I do not have a place for. "Are you going to check under my bed for monsters?" I am still pissed that he had the nerve to drop the call on me. I am more irked by the fact that I had to send Zach across DC with an empty envelope.

It doesn't help that Booth is now plundering through my apartment, checking behind doors and pulling open cabinets. I cannot imagine what he expects to find, and I know he is over reacting. He tried to unnerve me in the Jeffersonian when he came by to wait on me. He spurted some information about no fingerprints and no stamp, and he expects me to crumble in a mass of quivering fear. Do I have nothing better to do than succumb to someone's childish attempts to frighten me?

He steps towards my bedroom and I draw the line. "Don't even think about it, Booth," I say and he halts.

"He was here, Bones," he counters, his hand falling on the handle. I open my mouth, but he invades my privacy anyway, flicking on the light, bathing all my personal belongings in a soft glow. I am behind him in an instant.

"You are beginning to irritate me," I say as calmly as I can muster. He responds by pulling my closet open, rummaging through my shirts, nudging aside my shoes. When he is contented my apartment is free from the ghouls from hell, he turns, hands on his hips.

"I understand you've got some independent 'I don't need any help' thing going on, and hey, that's fine. You can maintain your foolish little pretence as long as you deem necessary, but I am certain, thanks to _scientific _fact that someone was outside your door. Someone you did not invite." I know he tried to persuade me with the scientific reference. But I am not budging.

"I didn't invite you. So, now that you've realised there's no psychopaths here to remove, could you remove yourself?" I step aside, gesturing to the living room. Booth grits his teeth, brushing past me. I extinguish the light and close the door, grateful that he's no longer standing by my bed as if he belongs there.

That's the thing with Booth. He's good at insinuating himself into parts of my life where I am sure he doesn't belong. And I am afraid, if he stood there for any longer, I would convince myself it was okay. It's not. He shouldn't even be in my apartment, let alone my bedroom!

I watch him for a moment as he peers out my window unto the street, as if expecting to find someone waiting down there; looking up.

"I'm going to make coffee," I say, shrugging my shoulders in resignation. He has some macho need to protect, and I cannot appease his foolish fears. So I get one letter - _one_ letter, and suddenly Booth is taking about stake-outs and generally wasting the government's money.

"None for me. I'm going to go now," Booth says, drawing back from the window and pulling the drapes across the glass. I never cover my window. I feel suffocated.

"I wasn't offering you, Booth," I say, wondering how long I'll have to wait before I can open the curtains again. "Now, apart from tucking me in and making sure my night-light is on, there's nothing else you can do." I know he wants to retort with some inappropriate innuendo about tucking me in, but the glare I fix him with dissuades his pesky nature and he turns towards the door.

"Make sure _everything_ is locked once, I leave, okay? I roll my eyes. "I'm serious, Brennan. Keep the chain on, too." When he's gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I can relax. I had visions of him staying the night. He's offered to do that once before. And he would have… had it not been for the exploding refrigerator.

I step into the kitchen, still thinking of the bomb. I am aware immediately that something is not right. I can the room, everything seems to be in order. Everything belongs - yet something does not. I cannot work out exactly what.

Shrugging off my paranoia, I scoop instant coffee into my favourite mug, and a spoonful of sugar then wait for the water to boil.

Something bugs me.

I notice my book sitting against the microwave and I frown. I cannot remember having left it there. I keep my novels, finished and unfinished, with my text books. Something is amiss.

Sliding the hardback across the counter, I turn the page. I recognise my own handwriting peaking out from beneath the dust cover.

_Good luck & enjoy your research_.

I have no recollection of every signing this book. But then, why would I? I signed thousands at my last book signing. And thousands more before that.

When I turn the first page, the margins are filled with near illegible scrawls. I tilt the book, trying to understand what the words mean. I'm not even sure they're written in English.

While I contemplate the strange words, a part of my mind alerts me to the fact that this book shouldn't even be here, and while I've been gone, someone's been here, in my apartment, probably rooting through my things. I shove the novel away, spinning instinctively, as though someone is there, watching me.

The doorway is empty.

I hurry to the front door, double checking the bolts and the chain, and when I am sure I'm alone, I inhale, willing myself to calm. It's simple. I'll have someone change the locks in the morning. Obviously someone's gotten hold of my keys. Some deranged fool. It's easily remedied.

My CD players clicks on, and my heart leaps. I feel haunted and violated but I am too logical and proud to admit it. The discs whir, changing from one to another. When the CD engages, my room is filled with the sound of music. I search blindly for a weapon, despite knowing I am alone.

_It's simple_, I reason, _I turned the timer on by mistake. Don't be ridiculous, Temperance. Where is your scientific reasoning now? No one is here._

After a few moments, I realise I do not know this song. It's like déjà vu. I didn't know where Foreigner came from. I don't know where… _Sting_?

The lyrics depict how 'We'll be together' and I am frightened now. As I move towards my living room, I feel my chest tighten. This is unfair. I cannot be violated like this.

_To have you with me I would swim the seven seas  
To have you as my guide and my light  
My love is a flame that burns in your name  
We'll be together, We'll be together_

I reach for my cell phone, clutching it, my heart hammering. I dial Booth's number, and he answers in a single ring.

"What's wrong?" He asks, his voice harassed.

"I think you need to come back," I tell him. "Someone's been in my apartment."


	5. Reassurance

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters belong to Fox.

**Rating: **This story is rated M.

**A/N: **Technically, if this ran in order, this chapter should be from the stalker's POV, but remember, the drapes are closed. Ha! Attention to detail! LoL! So, I'm doing it from Booth's.

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She hesitates when I knock the door. I see her shadow pass across the door, and I know she's scared. Her voice trembled on the phone, and my hyper-protective nature kicked in. I broke every speed limit in the world to return to her building. I'm breathless because I ran up the stairs, frightened that in five minutes she'd be attacked.

I'm in worse shape than she is.

"Bones," I breathe when she pulls open her door. There is no dramatic 'I'm the hero' scene where she hugs me. She just ushers me inside, hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed. In the background, her player blasts Sting. I never imagined Brennan being that kind of listener.

"I signed a book for him," she says, holding a zip-loc bag before me. Good old scientific Brennan still remembers to preserve evidence. She seems a little more willing to accept the severity of the situation now. She is pacing. "I know I am over reacting. What is the rational explanation, Temperance?" She questions herself, pressing her fingertips to her forehead.

"I need to take this to the lab," I say. Wilcox called me earlier and said the envelope showed up nadda. Perhaps this book, Brennan's book, will give us some insight. I realise it will probably have many fingerprints. The retailers who sold it will have had staff who touched it. Brennan touched it. I see she's signed it, so she's touched it twice. Even if the guy left a damn print, they'll be in such bad shape…

But the notes in the margins, perhaps Wilcox can determine something else from the handwriting. I can only hope.

"Take the CD, too. It's not mine," Brennan orders, stopping the player. I'm grateful for the silence.

"It came on by itself?" I ask, taking the CD from the player with a Kleenex from my pocket. Fingerprints show up a treat on the surface of disks. I can only hope. "Do you have another zip-loc bag?" I ask, and she moves off towards the kitchen. I notice there is a stiffness in her shoulders, her spine is straight.

"I think it was preset," she says, rummaging in a cupboard. "There is an alarm system set into the player." When she returns, she offers me another clear plastic bag. "It automatically started playing track eleven." I seal the makeshift evidence bag and turn to her. Her eyes shift around the apartment as though she expects to find something lurking in the darkest corner. But she doesn't voice her fear. Brennan is too strong for such vulnerabilities. "What will you do with these?" She asks, finally, gesturing to the two sealed items.

"I'll take them down to the lab. Someone there will analyse it. Then I'm going to speak to Santana and request this be made into an official investigation." Brennan tilts her head, her hair falling against her cheek. Her eyes and downcast and I know she's unhappy with my decision. When she speaks, her voice does not have the same biting commands from earlier, though.

"I don't want my home turned into some FBI parade, Booth," she says. I nod.

"I know. I'll keep it to a minimum, I promise." I don't want her privacy to be invaded. Who ever has entered her apartment and violated her has done enough damage without a squad of federal agents barging in and marauding through her things. She nods vaguely. "Get your stuff. You're coming with me." I know she wants to refuse. I see it on her lips. In her eyes. Her posture. Her features. Every inch of Temperance Brennan reflects how she loathes being mothered. But she doesn't speak.

I know she realises the danger, now.

The FBI Headquarters is quiet. Although the corridors are lit, as they always are, the offices that line them are darkened, except for the few agents who're required to burn the midnight oil. It hasn't happened to me in awhile, but when it does, the coffee in the machine is definitely not enough to get through the long hours.

Brennan is beside me, taking everything in. She always does. The shrewd woman misses nothing. As we pass the Assistant Director's office, she makes a comment that _he_ is not working late.

"Nice office, nice pension… nice hours," she says and I smile.

"He works late… sometimes." I reply, and when she throws me a sceptical glare, I chuckle. "He does! Sometimes, when the Director is breathing down his neck he stays late. And he calls a big meeting." Brennan frowns.

"What for?" She asks.

"Well, he tells us that, not only do we have to work from dawn to dusk but, should it be required, we have to sell our souls to the devil." My smirk makes her smile and the tension eases from her muscles. "I'm just kidding. He's actually not a bad guy." We stop at the lab, and I let Brennan enter first.

The florescent lights hurt my eyes and I realise it's been a long day. Agent Wilcox has gone and has been replaced by James O'Malley. He's got white hair that protrudes from his head. He reminds me of Einstein. When he spots us, he removes his glasses.

"Can I help you?" Brennan glances at me. It's not common knowledge but, the FBI is extremely vast and despite what people think, we do not all know each other. I know O'Malley by name, but I have never met him.

"Agent Booth," he pulls off his latex glove and shakes my hand.

"O'Malley," he replies. "You got something?" I pass the two zip-loc bags across the counter, and he smirks. "Run out of evidence bags, Agent Booth?" He asks, replacing his gloves with a new pair and removing the hard back first. "Agent Wilcox was working on something earlier… a love note?" I nod.

"Yeah. It turned up nothing, though. I was hoping you'd find something on this." O'Malley opened the cover, glancing at Brennan with a glimmer of recognition.

"Dr Brennan? You're my hero. Or should I say… heroine?" Next to me, Bones smiles a little. She doesn't dwell on praise like she should. She knows she's talented, but I can't help but feel writing is purely a sideline for her. She thinks it's a hobby. A hobby that pays well. "I can check this for prints, although, with books it's unlikely there will be anything useful. This has probably passed through hundreds of hands," I nod.

"I expected as much. It's worth a try, though. I'm holding out for the CD." O'Malley turns to the disc, now, peering through the plastic. "When Wilcox returns, can you have her examine the handwriting? I have a feeling she'll find a match." The man nods vaguely, removing the disc and holding it to the light. "Call me if you find anything," I add, ushering Brennan out of the room. O'Malley grunts in response.

As we walk towards the elevator, Brennan keeps her eyes fixed on the floor. I nudge her, and she glances sideways. I feel a surge of emotion that I cannot explain. An overwhelming need to protect her. My fingers itch to reach for her, but I know she'd shy away. Brennan is not the type to revel in comfort. She's fiercely independent to the point of untouchable. I wish she wasn't. I wish she'd let me in.

"It's strange, being on the other side of the investigation," she says as I push the button and the elevator chimes open. We step into the empty car, and I touch her shoulder. I know I shouldn't. It's simple, and with anyone else, it would mean nothing. But with Brennan, it's a paramount leap.

"I know," I say. "But it'll be over soon, okay?" I hate making idle promises, and I know she hates that I have. But it's selfishness that makes the words tumble forth. I am trying to convince myself. "Right now, we need to speak to Santana." And as the elevator moves, I know my boss is not going to be happy at the request.

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I haven't decided who owns the next chapter. But I hope you'll review on this one. I love reviews! D


	6. The Bodyguard

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Rating: **M. What else, my friends?

**Disclaimer: **I don't have to disclaim. They're mine.

**A/N: **I can't think of anything to say. Except… review? Yeah. That's good. _Review_!

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I can't remember a time when I was so tired. My feet ache from wandering around the FBI headquarters, my head pounds and all I want is to crawl into bed the prospect of which makes my head hurt even more because I am, for the first time in my entire life, scared to be in my own apartment.

Santana complained a little, threw me some exasperated glares and asked Booth had he'd gotten himself such a pain-in-the-ass partner, who which Booth had just quipped that he wasn't going to complain, as I was, the only anthropologist in DC.

Then, Santana dispatched two agents from forensics to my apartment and for the past hour they've collected samples from every surface in my home and peered at fingerprints I know they'll discover are mine.

When my phone rings, I want to toss it against the wall, and I cannot remember being so hyped. "Brennan," I answer, dropping against my sofa with a sigh.

"Sweetie? What the _hell_ is going on? Why did you not _tell_ me?" Angela. Who else?

"Who _did_ tell you?" I ask, wiggling my toes in the vain hope the ache in my arches will disappear. Angela clicks her tongue.

"Super protective G-Man, obviously. Are you alright sweetie?" I see Booth move in the doorway, and I catch his eye. The glow from the table-lamp catches his irises and I see how tired he is, too. I remember his hang-over from the morning and I realise how long my day has been. Booth lying sprawled on my sofa seems like an eternity ago.

"I'm fine," I answer at last, and Angela sighs.

"Yeah, you sound like it. I'm coming over." I shake my head.

"No, Ange. I'm fine. The FBI guys are leaving now and I can _finally_ get to sleep. Don't worry-"

"I'm coming over, Brennan. I'll sleep on the couch, okay?" What's the point in arguing with her, anyway? She and Booth have formed their own club in which they mollycoddle me and make me feel like a victim. I _loathe_ being a victim. "See you soon," Angela says, and she is gone. When I toss my phone aside, Booth stops teetering in the doorway and steps into the living room, perching awkwardly on the end of the sofa.

"Is everything alright?" He asks, tentative.

"You told Angela," I state, my eyes closed. In the blackness, my headache seems to subside slightly - enough for me to concentrate on being pissed at Booth. Although, when he reached out and drops his hand to my forearm and squeezes there, my steely resolve melts away and I cannot be mad.

"Yes. I told her," he replies. "Angela is your friend-"

"Angela," I say slowly, "is almost as bad as you in regards to protecting me. I do not need protection." My voice is pointed, firm. He removes his hand, sighing.

"Whatever, Bones," he snaps, getting to his feet. "The boys are clearing out. I'll wait here until Angela arrives." I open one eye.

"You were listening to my conversation?" I accuse, and he shrugs.

"Yes. Mind if I grab myself a soda?" I am in a wretched mood. I cannot resist what comes from my mouth.

"Not yet, I haven't wired the fridge up to the nitro, yet." To my surprise, he just chuckles.

"Funny, Bones. Hilarious. Ha!" When he has finished mocking me, I hear him pop open a can of soda and then sigh in relief. "I can so imagine my bed, right now." He calls from the kitchen. I grunt in response.

"Me too," I reply. He's in the doorway in an instant, unwilling to miss the opportunity.

"You can imagine my bed, Bones? Are you in it?" Both eyes open this time, and I fix him a glare. He laughs. "Alright then." An image flashes through my mind, and I blush. How can my imagination so easily conjure myself in Booth's bed? I have never even _seen _Booth's bed. When I look at him, he's watching me. He knows.

My mind repeats the same explicative over and over again. He _knows_. He can read my mind and he knows what I was thinking.

I clear my throat. "Thanks for coming back today," I say. He nods.

"I don't imagine this is over yet, Bones," he replies. His fingers tighten around the soda can, and I watch the tension seep into his face. He is a normal man. A human. But with so many thoughts running through his mind. Booth is trained, not only as an FBI agent, but as a Ranger. I should cut him some slack. He cannot help the protectiveness that his rooted so deeply in his being. He's seen many, many things and he was taught to react this way.

"I know. I'll be fine," I say, and I smile a little. He blinks.

"Will you?" He sets the can aside, crossing his arms over his chest. His removed his tie, and the navy silk hangs over the edge of his pocket. After the long day, he's unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt and his pants are a little creased. I shouldn't notice these things. I shouldn't even be looking. But somehow, my analysis continues. His jaw is shadowed by stubble, I notice. I feel like I have turned his day into a giant fiasco. And I feel guilty, yet my mind still reels that someone was in my apartment. Looking at my stuff. Violating my privacy.

"Yes," I say. "I will be fine." But I'm not one hundred percent sure in what I am saying. He knows it, too. Booth understands so much about who I am that it worries me. Worry is quickly replaced by something else. A realisation, perhaps. No one has ever understood me, like this. He is annoying me, hovering over me like I'm some fragile porcelain doll - yet… I cannot explain it. He's refrained from touching me because he knows it would unnerve me.

We sit in companionable silence for awhile, until Angela knocks my front door with her trademark 'rappity-rap-rap'. Booth empties his can and lets her in. They whisper about my in the hallway for a moment until I, with my most frustrated tone, interrupt them.

"I can _hear_ you! Would you stop, please!" Angela sighs, unabashed.

"Oh sweetie!" She drops her bag on the floor and rushes to my side. "I cannot believe this is happening to you!" I shrug.

"Neither can I." Booth straightens.

"I'm leaving now. I'll be around tomorrow, Bones. I'll meet you at the Jeffersonian, okay?" I frown.

"I don't understand…?"

"C'mon, Bones. We've gone through this already," he rummages in his pocket for his car keys. When he finds them, he lifts them triumphantly into the air. "Until this maniac is caught, someone will be with you all the time," he chuckles to himself. "Our enactment of _The Bodyguard _begins tomorrow." I sit straight, as he pulls open my front door.

"I don't know what that means-" I call, and he turns to Angela and winks.

"Fill her in, Ange, would you?" My best friend throws her head back and laughs easily. "Don't forget to lock the doors. Ciao."

When he's gone, I turn to Angela with narrowed eyes. She smiled naughtily. "What's this bodyguard thing then?" And when her eyes twinkle I just know I am not going to like it.

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_Next chapter, coming up soon!_

_D _


	7. Angela's Estimate

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Fox.

**Rating: **Eventually an M.

**A/N: **Unbelievably, I have the next chapter written, too. I haven't stopped today! But I hope you like it anyway! Let me know. You know I am a review whore!

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"I don't have a sword," she says when I step into her office. She doesn't look up from her computer, but there is a small smile tugging on her lips.

"I beg your pardon?" I say, setting a cup of coffee on her desk. She removes the lid, peering into the darkened liquid.

"You remembered!" She says. I've had trouble reminding myself that she doesn't take cream. "I don't have a sword," she repeats. I still don't get it. Apparently my expression conveys this point to her. "The Bodyguard," she explains. "When we get to _that_ scene, we'll have to do it sans sword." I chuckle. She's in fine form today! Normally she's completely no-nonsense.

"Angela explained then, did she?" I ask. I am momentarily distracted from the many thoughts of Brennan's stalker that have kept me awake all night. I don't often get the chance to see this side of her. I intended to enjoy it, however long it lasts. Knowing Bones as I do I can safely assume her moment of normality won't last long.

"She paid particular detail to the sex scene. The rest she was a bit vague on." She is typing again, then enlarging images of bones on her screen. She squints at them. "Personally I cannot see the sexiness in a sword." I smirk. Maybe because I can. "Anyhow, I don't think we're going to be enacting this movie." I shrug.

"I didn't expect you to comply. Any letters this morning?" She shakes her head. "Don't be assuming it's over yet, Bones," I warn her. "There was a buzz of activity around your apartment. He might be a bit freaked." She sips her coffee, her eyes darkened in thought. "I have someone posted outside your apartment. The bastard isn't getting in now." She blinks at me, and I almost believe I see affection there. If I did, it's gone in an instant.

"Thank you," she says, pushing her chair back. She has her lab coat on in a second and she's out the door, coffee in hand. I follow her, but, having not acquired enough sleep to maintain her hellish pace, I feel like I am tagging.

"Who could have access to your keys?" I ask, finally falling into step beside her. She shrugs.

"I was thinking about this. I really do not know. I carry my keys everywhere with me." My mind turns, exploring all avenues. This is my job, and I know she hates unfounded conjecture. But at the moment, science has turned up nothing but dead ends. O'Malley called me this morning with a giant nothing. Wilcox had only started analysing the hand-writing.

"Could it be someone in here?" I ask. She downs another mouthful of coffee.

"I doubt it. Although my office is not locked…" after a few moments, she dismisses it. "No. I really doubt it. The only people here that I talk to are my friends. Angela, Zach, Hodgins and Goodman. They wouldn't…" I nod my head. I know they would not. Despite my original doubt of the Squints, I have come to like them. All of them. They respect and adore Brennan.

As we near the quarantined lab, I hear Angela's voice. She is murmuring conspiratorially and I know instinctively she's talking about me.

"…they'll be doing it soon. It's the FBI hero thing…" she says.

"I get ya," Hodgins says. "Boom, boom, boom…" Zach nudges him and they all turn.

Brennan blushes. "There will be no _booming_! Aren't you meant to be working?" Angela is the only one who does not look contrite. As far as she's concerned, everyone else's business is hers, and she can gossip about whoever she wants. "Hodgins?" The Bug-Boy sighs.

"Sorry Dr Brennan…"

"You should be." She turns to me. "I have someone coming this evening to change the locks. So there will be an end to this!" I watch as she bends over a microscope, diving into her work as usual.

"A new lock won't stop the letters, Bones," I say. She grunts. "I'll be doing the 'stay over' shift tonight. Just in case." She glances up.

"No you're not. Angela can stay again." I glance up, and Angela is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Actually sweetie… I can't. I've made plans." She gives her best apologetic smile and Brennan totally sucks it up. I cannot believe a woman so intelligent is so gullible. Can she not see through Angela's blatant matchmaking attempts? I'm cringing here! "Don't worry," she whispers as though I can't hear. "He won't bite…unless you want him to, that is!"

"Angela!" Brennan hisses, glaring. "Enough… please…" I am so satisfied by the rosy tinge that comes over her cheeks. In the back of my mind, though, the sinister reason behind our banter plays on. There's a very sombre reason why we're discussing Brennan's bodyguard situation. I can't appease the nagging feeling that tells me a change of locks is not going to remedy the problems we're having. "Booth…? I think I should be alright here today," Brennan says. "If you have work to be getting on with back at your office." I shake the disturbing feeling off, and smile reassuringly.

"I have brought the work with me, Bones. I'm as efficient as hell." I really believe I am, too. I've crammed a month's worth of work into the back of my car, and if I can find a spot to work in peace, I can get through a lot of it. As long as Brennan is in my sight. "All I need is a desk and a telephone…"

"Someone kick you out of the FBI headquarters, Agent Booth?" I turn. Dr Goodman smiles at me with his usual good humour. This is another man I like. Despite his stern appearance, he is, underneath, a great guy, who cares about his staff and he seems to have a good rapport with them all. Even Hodgins, who, despite always having something to say, seems to be genuinely fond of him.

"Booth is playing Frank Farmer today, sir," Angela chirps.

"Miss Montenegro," Goodman says, never taking his eyes off me. "Don't you have _something_ aside from prying to get on with?" Angela taps her pencil on her sketch pad.

"As a matter of fact, I do." She jumps off her stool, and nudges Hodgins on her way to the steps. "Forty eight hours," she winks. "Max." Hodgins clears his throat, and I get their little 'in' joke immediately. Brennan, however, frowns at Zach who does nothing to fill her in.

When Angela is gone, Goodman speaks. "Frank Farmer, Agent Booth? Whatever is that woman talking about now? She pretends to be vague, but she has insight into everything that's going on which is exactly why I am not disregarding her movie reference, this time." I sigh. Brennan hasn't informed her boss either, then.

"Dr Brennan has been the victim of some unwanted attention recently," I explain. "Very recently, actually. When did all this start, Bones?" It feels like an eternity. When did I start feeling like this towards her? When did I start walking this fine line? I have only one target in mind; protection. This is one duty I cannot fail.

"Yesterday," she replies. I cannot believe it only started a day ago.

"What kind of attention do you mean?" Goodman asks, crossing his arms. He is an imposingly large man. I am more afraid of this man than I am of my own boss. And he has no authority over me!

"A letter," I say.

"Just a letter?" I realise he's not likely to be contented with vague details.

"No post mark. He then got into her apartment while she was here and left behind a book she had signed for him and a specially selected track on her CD player." Brennan clears her throat.

"Must you talk about me like I'm not here?" Goodman ignores her.

"Have you found anything?" Brennan growls and turns back to her microscope.

"Not yet. It's safe to say we're dealing with someone clever, here. Brennan's having her locks changed today. But…" Goodman senses my concerns, and nods. I know he's thinking the same thing. He's intelligent, like Brennan, but he's a lot more streetwise than she is. Where Bones carries a naivety, Goodman does not. "Which is why I am staying here today. And tonight," I lean close enough for Brennan to hear me. "I am staying with you tonight, okay? And you're not getting out of it. Like Angela said, I won't bite." And as I turn towards the steps, ready to collect my things from my car, I hear Hodgins speak.

"Unless you want him to, that is…"

Damn! He and Angela conspire together!

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_On to the next chapter which is up already. Busy bee me!_


	8. An Overactive Mind

**_Title: _**A Dangerous Aficionado

**_Rating: _**This chapter will be an M. But it is much less dirty than what's to come. Erm… no pun intended.

**_Disclaimer: _**Not mine, unfortunately. Trust me folks, if I owned these characters I would _not_ be getting the train into the city every day!

**_A/N: _**Only BonesDBchippie will be predicting the outcome of this chapter. Simply because it was her amazing idea. When she pitched the plan, it seemed right. Anyway, a massive thank you to her. Not only for her idea, but for her unending support and 'off the record' emails! Cheers!

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_Her window is open._

_She fans herself, and when she turns to him I can hear her voice, harassed and exasperated._

"_It's so damn hot in here," she says, and he nods, stepping past her and shoving the window open farther. My fingers tighten around the window sill, as I listen to him narrate his day. I never imagined the job of a Federal agent could be so yawn-inspiringly boring. But she listens as though she is interested. _

_When she removes her shoes and sits on the sofa, he sits next to her. I can see their knees touch and Temperance folds her hands over her torso. She fixes her eye on the photograph on the wall before her. I know she feels awkward, because she has started to feel things for him. Just like he feels things for her._

_I despise these new emotions because they put a barrier between us. I realise my antics have only proven to draw them closer together. I have to think quick, before she ends up a permanent fixture in his life. She will be mine, and if that means disposing of him…_

_I laugh to myself._

_Disposal? I'm not a murderer. I am not crazy, either. Imagining that Temperance is mine is perhaps a foolish indulgence that will one day become bad for me. But aren't all indulgences bad? I understand that moderation is extremely important. My doctor once told me I have an addictive personality. I used to think that meant my personality was addictive to others. But that didn't ring true. Apparently I have a persona where I am susceptible to addiction. I could get addicted to her._

_To her silken hair and her bright blue eyes._

_I've looked into those eyes in her book photograph, before. But since purchasing my ten times optical zoom camera, I have been able to look at photographs of my own creation. And yes, foolish as I am, I've alerted them a little on Photoshop. But no one needs to know about that._

_My camera has nine million mega pixels and I can get excellent views from my bathroom window when I look into her bedroom. At least I could, until that pesky partner of hers started closing all the drapes! _

_I see him reach his hand out, and take hers. He speaks with soft tones. _

"_He'll never get you," he says. I can barely hear them, now. I see Temperance nod and lean into him. Their mouths seem to touch by instinct and their hands seek each other out. Temperance clutches his shirt, clawing at the material, desperate and needy. He touches her neck, and parts her lips and she happily complies._

_My chest tightens and I realise they're not going to stop with a mere kiss. He's unbuttoning her shirt, his hands roaming her body. Her eyes are closed. I am glad. I could not bear to see the emotion surging there. I can already see enough in the way her fingers rove his face, across his jaw, through his hair._

_I can almost hear her breath, dammit! I can almost hear the exigency crackle in the air._

_She wriggles beneath him, accommodating his weight, welcoming his hot skin against her. I inside my cheek so hard, I draw blood. How can she possibly feel like this? What does he offer her? There can only be one ending to this crazy relationship and that is, he'll die and she'll be nursing a broken heart! Doesn't she see how he cannot offer her stability? He's an FBI agent for Christ's sake!_

_I can almost smell their bodies, as they grind against each other, their mouths searching. When he laves her nipples, Temperance's lips part in a breathy whisper. She arches her spine, and I feel the strongest sense of jealousy I have ever experienced before! I hate that he's touching her. I hate that he's touching her breasts, and she's moaning under his ministrations. How dare he! _

_My indulgence takes control of my body and I press my face against the glass, I hear her call his name and he undresses her until she's completely naked, her lovely long legs wrapped around him, crossed at her ankles, while he slips into her. She is a vocal lover. He is encouraged by it, thrusting into her, their bodies rocking and gyrating while Temperance screams and screams…_

_I turn away from the window, my head pounding with anger. He cannot touch her! He cannot have her! _

_She's mine. I will make her mine. _

_The song I played for her rings inside my ears. We will be together. We will…_

_When I glance over my shoulder, he has slipped his hand between their bodies and he pleasures her with his fingers. She lifts her body, rolling her hips, telling him how good he is. He thrusts, over and over, pulling her nipple between his lips. Their bodies shine with sweat, illuminated by the soft lamp light. _

_She orgasms around him and I cannot bear to look. I do not want to see him get off on her body. I cannot handle the images that bombard my mind. He is not allowed to have her. No one, except me…_

_No one…_

_I close my eyes, but their hot sex flashes behind my lids. I growl, gritting my teeth. He's violating her! Taking advantage of her emotional state! I need to make some plans. _

_When I look back, they are sitting at the edge of her sofa, pouring over his notes. She nods when he speaks, their voices sound like whispers. They are wearing all their clothes, and I am confused. How could…?_

_I narrow my eyes, watching how she laughs throatily at something he says, and then passes him a soda. When she looks away, his eyes linger. He is thinking. He is imaging them having sex. Just like I have done. I know they'll will eventually, and I have to stop it._

_I have to make some plans._

_Immediately._

_There is no time to waste… _

_No time at all._

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**A/N: **So many people liked the stalker's POV for the sex scene. But I think it should belong to Brennan and Booth. I am a hopeless romantic. I loved the stalker idea myself. Which is why I have written this chapter. Thanks again to BonesDBchippie for her incredible input.

Reviews are my lifeline.

Thanks.


	9. Delivery

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Rating: **Eventually this will be another M.

**A/N: **Thank you so much for all the reviews! I am so pleased! I have got over one hundred now. People have asked about the Santana thing… and to be honest, I got it off a transcript I read. So I apologise if it's wrong. Damn… but anyway, I hope you like this chapter. I've been a little slower today… sorry! And tonight is The Man in the Morgue and I have been told there is much romantic inspiration to be found in this episode. So… maybe a oneshot tomorrow?

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I fall asleep before seven, and I know it's because I feel safe. I should say I feel safe because Booth has a government issue weapon holstered to his side, but I don't. I know, despite the danger I am in, Booth will never let any hurt me.

I dream of the Jeffersonian, and Zach. I am so rational when I am awake that my dreams more than make up for what irrational thoughts I lack during the day. I see Zach, dancing around the lab. He has a skeleton, held together by wire. It's ready to go into the cabinet for a display. I vaguely think of pirates. Zach has a pirate's hat on. And he waltzes around the gurney's, the skeleton's legs fanning out as he spins.

Angela joins the dance, spinning and spinning and her hair seems to go on forever. She is singing now… singing the waltz tune.

_Duh… nuh…Nuh…Nuh…Nu…Nu…Nu…nu…_

She doesn't have a skeleton to dance with and she complains through her song that Zach always gets to dance with the good ones.

I feel like I'm watching as an outsider. I'm not really there. I find myself thinking that they should be working, not dancing! Then I am swept into the picture, and I am dancing too. I am wearing my lab coat, except it's not blue anymore, it's bright luminous pink. And Booth is dancing with me. Spinning me around like Zach's skeleton and my feet slip across the floor.

Angela still sings, skipping around the examination table, she has a string of daisies in her hand now, and she looks like something from _Little House on the Prairie. _I watch her over Booth's shoulder, and when Hodgins appears, the entirety of our team dance like crazed lunatics, to a waltz sung by Angela.

When I look at Booth, he's not Booth anymore. He doesn't have a face. It's almost as though he's features have been darkened by shadows and all I can see are holes where his eyes should be. He spins me, and dips me and my hair brushes the floor. I reach out to touch his face because I am perplexed as to where it as gone. His hand grabs mine.

"We'll be together, Temperance," he says… only it's not him. "Soon…"

I open my mouth and I cry out.

"_Booth_!" My arms thrash as the result of my first nightmare in years. I cannot remember the last time, in fact. My skin is moist with sweat and my pulse hammers against my throat. Booth has placed a blanket over me and I shove it off, too hot. I cannot _breathe_.

"Hey!" He's by my side in an instant, crouching at the edge of the sofa. "What's wrong? What happened?" His eyes are enormously wide. I reach out to him, touching his shirt. He's warm. He has a face. He's not _him_.

"I'm so…" I try to say 'stupid' but I know I am not. I know that, if I would allow psychology in every now and then, there is a logical reason behind my dream. The faceless guy is on my mind and I incorporated that into my subconscious thought. "Just a dream…" I whisper. He nods, and passes me a glass of water. I am not sure how to respond to his kindness, or how he looks at me with such unveiled concern.

"Bones…" I shake my head.

"Don't…" I cannot bear the vulnerability. I can't admit to myself that I need him. He opens his mouth to speak, but he is silenced by a sharp knock at my front door. We both stiffen. Our eyes stare, and after a long few moments, someone raps again. Booth stands, moving to the front door. He hear him speak in low tones and the door closes again.

"Are you expecting something from your publisher?" He asks, holding a FedEx box for my inspection. I frown. When Booth realises I do not know what the package is, his expression changes and he looks at the object as though it's a bomb. "This is from… him?" There's a glimmer of anger in his tone, laced with something I know to be concern.

My mind reels from my nightmare and coupling it with an unknown package makes my heart race. I feel sick.

Booth peals back the brown tape, separating the edges of the box and peering inside. I see nothing on his features now. He is desperately still, and the lack of emotion scares me.

"The fucking _bastard_!" He yells, pulling his hand back and hitting the box with force enough to knock it off the table. It flies through the air, hitting the wall and toppling unto its side. It's now I can see the glossy photographs, scattered across the floor. They're all of me. I see my own oblivious face, in every single frame.

Booth is pacing, hands on his hips. "I'll kill him…" he breathes, fiery and intense. I blink, slipping off the sofa unto my knees. I touch the photos, knowing I shouldn't, knowing that I am contaminating the evidence. But I don't care. I see myself, in the street, in my car, I see my face, digitally altered and placed on a bikini clad model. I cringe.

"He watches me… every where I go," I whisper, pulling my hands away. I feel as though I've been burnt. Behind me, Booth thrusts his fist against the wall, and I jump, startled. "It's… it's okay, Booth. Relax." My voice sounds less confident than I would have liked.

"It's _not_ okay! Look at these!" His hand gestures to the scattered photographs. I notice his jaw, tight and flexing. His eyes blaze, as his fingers tighten around my arm and yank me from the floor. "It is _not_ okay!" My lips tremble and I feel a surge of anger. Anger towards the man who has violated me in such a fundamental way. But instead, I convey it towards my partner. I shove his hand off me, crossing my arms across my torso, and my body shakes. His features soften, and he reaches for me.

"Don't!" I hiss, recoiling against the sofa. I don't want to be treated like a child! I am an adult! I do not need concern. Booth stands, his arms by his side, his rubbing his palms with his fingers. After a long moment, he sighs, crouching, gathering the photographs into a pile and depositing them inside the box. His shoulders are taut, his eyes desperately weary. I need him, yet I cannot allow myself to reach out. I cannot allow myself to admit need.

"Bones…?" He sets the box on my table and thrusts his hands into his pockets. "Do you want to get some food? Get out of this apartment? It's still early." I'm so tired, I don't know if I can move. But the walls close in on me. I feel like I'm being watched from every corner. Judging by the pictures, he'll probably watch me wherever I go tonight.

"Okay…" I say, heaving a sigh. My dream spins inside my head and fragments of Zach and his skeleton whirl like a creepy mirage. I need to relax. Drink some beer and maybe, just maybe, forget about the nightmarish situation I have found myself in.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Starting to creep myself out. I am so glad it doesn't get dark until 10pm British Summer Time! Ha! Ha!


	10. Dare to Hope

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **Well actually… oh alright, they're still not mine.

**Rating: **I leave that up to you…

**A/N: **Oh my head hurts today. I think I stayed up too late last night. This is a very short chapter, but only because I have ideas that require me to move things on a little. I hope it's still okay. Let me know. And for Ataea, there will be much more 'angstmance'. You have my word. Thanks for everyone's kind words.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bones is eating a bowl of penne pasta as though she hasn't consumed food in an entire week. I don't mind, because I quite enjoy this side of her. Under different circumstances, I might even try to get her drunk. But she seems as though she's a lightweight…

"This place is excellent, Booth," she says through a mouthful of sauce. "I can't believe I never noticed it before. You find all the good places." I smile, wondering how long it will take because the Squint Squad invade _this_ place too. They've already conquered half of Wong Foo's. I am far from amused. They were only meant to claim the booth. That was it. But _no_…

"I do. Can we keep this one between us, eh?" I say, washing exquisite _Fettuccine al Limone _down with a mouthful of white wine. Brennan eyes me for a moment, then swipes her tongue over her lips. I feel my groin stiffen and I offer her a tight smile. My response is entirely inappropriate.

"Don't you like my friends?" She asks, her cool blue eyes studying mine.

"Of course I like them, Bones," I reply, shifting beneath the table. "But maybe this is somewhere we can come, without the Squints?" She frowns, pushing her bowl away. I wonder if I have crossed a line. I'm not exactly asking her on a date -- we've come too far for such romantic gestures. But I am suggesting she let me in occasionally. We're supposed to be friends, now.

"Okay," she says at last. I relax. "Do you think he's… watching me now?" My eyes shift around the small Italian restaurant, scanning each face illuminated by the iridescent candles. No one looks at us, and the sidewalk outside his empty. Eventually, I shake my head. I watch the tension slide off her shoulders and I feel privileged that I can comfort her like this. "I have to admit," she says, twisting her napkin between her fingers. "The photographs have me a little on edge. I feel as though my skin is crawling…" I feel my fist clench automatically.

"We'll catch him. As long as you are protected he cannot touch you. He'll make a mistake… eventually." She drops her eyes to the tablecloth, releasing her napkin and tracing the pattern on the white linen with her fingertip.

"And until then?" Her eyes search mine, now, desperately seeking answers and I realise she's lost. Brennan hasn't experienced fear in a long time. She doesn't know how to cope with it, now.

"You stop worrying and let me take care of you." I smile at her, but she doesn't smile back. Brennan has never let anyone care for her. She's got a strength that knows no limits. But tonight, that strength is fractured just a little. Those photos have rattled her, because she doesn't feel safe. No martial arts can protect her from the lens of a camera. Even I cannot protect her from that. At least, not exactly. But I can try. I can do everything within my power to ensure he never gets close enough to touch. Never gets close enough to hurt her. Physically. He's doing a damn fine job of emotionally hurting her, now.

"I don't know if I can do that," she replies, curling her fingers atop the table. I brush my own across her knuckles, and she unclenches her fist a little.

"I know… but I thought I would try." A catch a glimmer in her eyes, something that makes me think her icy resolve is melting. I dare to hope… maybe she'll let me in. Maybe…

"Then maybe I'll try too," she replied, tilting her head a little, her face hidden behind her hair. I regret no longer seeing her features. Then I realise my emotions have taken another dangerous turn. I am too close. Too close to her.

"We'll take the photographs to Wilcox in the morning. Maybe… just maybe she can distinguish which camera was used," I say, emptying my glass. I'm tired, now, and if the closest I get to a proper night's sleep is lying on Brennan's couch, then I'll take it, because I'm beat.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She falls into a restless sleep thirty minutes after we arrive at her apartment. I complete my cursory 'monster hunt', checking behind doors again. When I pull the drapes, she changes and slips beneath the covers, her reddish hair fanned out against the pillow. I watch her sleep for ten minutes, reasoning that I am protecting her.

When she turns, I think I am caught, but she dreams on.

Easing the door shut, I settle down unto her sofa for what will probably be an extremely long night. I know, despite my tiredness, I will contemplate the photographs, the person that took them, my sleeping partner and the danger she is in and I know beyond a doubt my dreams will be filled with images of her as well. And not the type that is acceptable.

My thoughts are forbidden and Brennan would kick my ass if she knew. Maybe a sadistic part of my nature has been aroused by my protectiveness, but I loathe not being able to touch her. I loathe being so near to her, yet so far.

I can only hope she'll let me in. Let me near.

I can dare to hope.


	11. A Change

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **Bones and its characters belong to Fox and their affiliates.

**A/N: **My headache has gone but the weather in Northern Ireland is really shit today. So instead of spending my Saturday going out, I am going to write instead - while my husband tinkers about with the network and my best friend plays GTA on the PlayStation. A random piece of information that effectively wastes your and my, time. Oh well, it is Saturday after all…

Oh and one piece of relevance to the actual story… I have moved on a few days. Upping the pace, and all that.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Do you think Brennan is alright?" I pull a stool across the lab and sit next to Hodgins, who tilts his magnifying glass a little, rolling grains of dirt, although I don't call it that in front of him, between his thumb and forefinger. He hums a little, signifying that is okay for me to talk, but he won't necessarily be listening. It's good enough for me. "I don't know if she's okay. This past few days she's been acting… odd." Hodgins looks up, flicking his fingers until the residual dust falls back unto the dish.

"Okay, Angela, you do remember about the psycho stalker thing?" He asks, slipping the lid unto the dish. I roll my eyes, watching as he seems to almost _smile_ at the grainy earth within.

"I don't mean that," I say. "I expected her to be a little more… _frustrated_ at Booth being around twenty four hours a day. He gets on her nerves, remember." Hodgins chuckles, pulling his latex gloves off.

"Maybe they've bonded," he jokes. "Oh and, Angela, you owe me twenty dollars." I frown, following him across the lab as he slips the Perspex dish into the darkest, dreariest corner of his shelving unit.

"How?" I ask. His blue eyes laugh when he does. I've noticed that about Hodgins. At least, recently, I have. And a shyness. It's my artistic nature that causes me to notice. I do this with everyone. Look at their eyes, and gauge their emotions and their soul. I tell myself that all artists in history do this.

"Forty eight hours, max? It's been five days, Angela. Five days, and not so much as a glowing cheek. Plus, the stalker guy has been mysteriously absent. No letters, no photos… pretty soon, Booth will have to pull out the cavalry… and by that I mean the federal agents he's had posted outside her apartment. And himself." I maul over what he's saying, and eventually give in.

"Okay… it seems their defences are a little stronger than I first anticipated. But he won't leave. I agree he may have to put an end to the stakeouts, but he won't leave her apartment. No way." Hodgins descends the steps and I follow him, hands in my pockets. We walk a little ways through the tables of oblivious scientists, stopping when we see Brennan's office. The door is closed, but through the window, we see her, bent over her desk, analysing something.

"What's wrong with her then?" Hodgins asks at last, glancing sideways at me.

"She's letting her defences down. She has to be. That's why she hasn't clobbered Booth over the head with something. I mean… _look_… he's sitting in her office and she isn't even unnerved by him." Hodgins nods slowly.

"So you're thinking maybe they're getting to know each other. Bonding, like I said?" I shrug. I'm not really sure. "Good on Booth! He's either _really_ too concerned about her safety or he's gay. What man would be living with a hot woman, and not trying to get off the sofa into the bed?" A dig him with my elbow, and he laughs, batting me away.

"Maybe Booth is an old fashioned kind of guy, huh?" I say, wondering at the thought. Hodgins matches my stance now, hands in his pockets. "Maybe they're doing things the right way." I cannot remember a relationship where I ever did things the right way. With Kirk, we had something very nice. Comfortable and understanding. But that started with physical attraction. Most men I meet I form a physical bond before emotional.

"There's a right way to have sex?" Hodgins laughs, moving on, through examination tables, past our colleagues who barely talk to us because we're the anthropology team and we have a super strange boss. The rest of the scientists tend to shy away from us. I don't care. I like our little team. All five of us. Technically four, but Booth is one of us now.

"Of course there is," I reply. "Not only with sex, but with everything. I level of trust should be established. I think Brennan trusts Booth entirely. Maybe that's why she's not pissed off at him." We climb the long flight of stairs to the gallery. I realise it's lunch time already.

"Ange… I never realised you were such a hopeless romantic," Hodgins is mocking me, and I poke him again. "Ouch, knock it off!" The balcony affords us a view over the entire laboratory and I see Booth leave Brennan's office, his jacket slung over his shoulder. He's coming towards us. Moments later, Brennan leaves too. She's not wearing her lab coat. She's _always_ got that thing on.

When I think they're going to climb the stairs, they veer off towards the doors. "Oh my God…" I say, turning to Hodgins. He frowns at me as though I am insane. "He's taking her to lunch. How did he distract her from her work?" Jack shakes his head, dark curls shifting slightly. "This is huge…"

"Oh melodramatics are _so_ your thing, Angela. It's lunch, not marriage. And we should not spend our day wondering at the Brennan and Booth saga. We have work to do." I huff.

"It's lunch time," I say, turning on my heel and falling unto the sofa. I finally notice Zach, feet propped on the table, he's holding a notebook on his knees, a pencil in his hand, but he's watching us. I grin at him. "Whatcha doing?" He guards the book against his chest.

"Has something happened between Dr Brennan and Agent Booth?" He asks, sounding like an eager puppy dog. I laugh.

"No," Hodgins says. "Angela is relying on her conjecture, again. Which Brennan _hates_ by the way. Yeah, Zach, what are you doing man?" Zach reluctantly pulls the notebook away from his body and tilts it ever so slightly towards me. All I see are scientific words and I lose interest immediately. Hodgins, however, scans the first few lines. "Your thesis? Zach…"

"Dr Goodman thinks I should finish it, remember," Zach hurries to say. "I'm putting in some time between working here and when I'm at home." He sighs. "I guess I have to accept that I cannot be Dr Brennan's assistant forever." Hodgins sits on the sofa opposite, a compassion taking over him and I watch. He pretends he doesn't like Zach. But I know he does. I know we all like each other.

"You'll be an excellent anthropologist, Zach," he says. "Two doctorates…"

"You have three…"

"Yours are better than mine," Hodgins says without missing a beat. I know that no doctorate is better than another and sometimes Jack doesn't give himself enough credit. He calls himself 'The Bug and Slime Guy' but he doesn't realise how invaluable he is. To Brennan and to the Jeffersonian. "I think it's excellent what you're doing." Zach's shoulders slump a little.

"Yeah… but I've made friends here. I feel like my scientific nature isn't odd among you guys." Hodgins drops his eyes to the floor.

"Maybe you can get a job here?" He says finally. I frown.

"We already have Brennan…"

We all open our mouths to speak, but whatever we planned on saying is silenced by Brennan, pounding up the stairs, followed by Booth. Her eyes are wide, her skin chalky white. "Where's Goodman?" Booth asks, his knuckles white.

"Last I heard he was checking out some archaeology exhibition, why? Hodgins says.

"We need to see the security tapes," Brennan says, her voice trembling a little.

"Why?" Hodgins repeats.

Booth releases a breath like a fiery hiss. "The bastard has been here." And then he's gone…


	12. Anger Tactics

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters are not mine. So don't blame me because they haven't had sex yet.

**Rating: **This story is rated M.

**A/N: **This is my second chapter today. I hope you like. I talked enough shit in the last A/N…

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"He's been here?" Hodgins asks, and I feel my chest seize.

"Yes," I whisper, turning to look over the balcony. Booth has taken off down the steps again, racing through the laboratory in a manner only a federal agent can get away with. He's furious. I recall the image of his cheeks flushing in anger, his chest puffing out. He'd raced back into the Jeffersonian before I could even comprehend what I was looking at.

"Sweetie?" Angela touches my arm, and I flinch. "Sorry…" she whispers, tilting her head sympathetically. Behind me, Hodgins and Zach talk among themselves, theorising what had happened.

"Photographs," I say. "They're… digitally altered." I take a deep breath, removing the attached letter from my jeans and hold it out. Angela takes it. "He has put them inside my car." She looks horrified, as if understanding how I feel. As my best friend, I know she's trying to empathise. But no one has successfully made me feel like they _understand_. Except maybe Booth. Because I can see how haunted he is, every time I look at him.

"_I don't want to sound as though I am violent, my love. I promote anti-violence and I have never held a gun in my life. But I bought one today. I felt compelled because I of him. He's always around, these days. I don't like it. I feel as though you've betrayed me. It's been such a long time that you've been alone that I convinced myself we were two loners together. And then you invited him into your home. I have images you allowed him into your bed, too…_" Angela looks up at me and I shake my head.

"He hasn't. We're not. Continue, please," I hasten to say. I feel my cheeks blush because I cannot deny I have imagined it, too.

"_I shan't be happy if I discover he has touched you. You don't belong to him. I purchased the gun because I want him to know I will not disappear from your life without a fight. He may think he loves you, but he doesn't. Not like me. He wouldn't yield a gun in your honour. He wouldn't imagine in his arms almost every minute. _

"_I have enclosed some images. These are the things I think of, my love. This is how you have effected me. How you will continue to effect me until I have you. I must. _

"_You'll be in my thoughts."_ Angela stands still, her hands trembling a little. "No signature. Jesus, Brennan, he actually believes all this stuff?" I take the letter, passing her the photographs. Her lips part in disgust, and Hodgins stands, followed by Zach. They peer around her, three pairs of eyes fixed on the glossy images.

"Whoa," Hodgins says. "That's sick, dude." I don't look at it, because I have committed the image to memory. The original photo had been doctored, the print now depicted a collage, bombarding several pictures into one. Most of them are me. But the central picture, the one which makes my stomach churn, is Booth. His face is placid. It looks like a time whenever we were out together, recently. I try to place it, but I cannot. I know he'll press me later for details.

A bullet hole, gory and fleshy as been incorporated unto his forehead. Beneath, at the bottom, scrawled in a barely legible font are the words '_how it ends_'.

"Isn't it a little… over-the-top?" Zach asks, taking the photograph from Angela's hand. I half shrug.

"Since infatuation is, on it's own, an over-the-top emotion, Zach, I doubt this guy is concerned about how this photo might look to us," I say. Angela moves on to the next, and her lips part in astonishment. My cheeks flame red, now. "This is _entirely_ fake," I stress. Hodgins' eyes flicker away, as though he's looking at something he isn't meant to be seeing. Zach's mortification follows seconds later. "Look," I point at the photograph. "You can see where my head had been attached to the body. Guys… it's _not_ me." Hodgins drops his hand to my arm, and nods slowly.

"We know it's not Brennan. You don't own those eight inch porno shoes, I'm sure. That's really what gives it away." I look at the woman's body, and realise the creator of these vile works has done his research. My frame is similar to hers. Although I'm not sure I could spread my legs that wide.

"This is a nightmare," I say at last, taking the pictures and shoving them into my pocket. "I was having such a nice day. There has been no activity in _days_. I thought it was over…" I move across the gallery, slouching unto the sofa, pressing my fingers to my eyes. I've a headache. I feel as though it's a common ailment, recently.

"I told you it isn't over, yet." We all turn our heads to Booth, who stands at the top of the stairs. "I guess there's one good thing about this," He sits next to me. I would be bothered at his proximity, normally, but as his thigh brushes mine, hard and warm, I feel something else. I almost imagine he'll drop his hand to my knee. But he does not. "This guy has some serious beef towards me," he gestures to my pocket. "Which means he probably isn't going to harm you. He'll target me which-"

"I don't want him to target you," I say, frustration creeping into my tone. "You're not my knight, Booth. I do not need to be rescued." I lean forward, dropping my head into my hand. I feel his hand fall to my back, stroking along my spine. I know he's comforting me, but through my fear, I feel a stirring I haven't felt in so long.

Zach speaks.

"You do, Dr Brennan," he says, positioning himself at the edge of the sofa opposite. When I look up, Angela and Hodgins have taken residence there too. "You were the one who mentioned infatuation. Infatuation rarely ends well." I wonder if he's hinting that I should accept the inevitable. Is he suggesting that Booth will, in the end, get hurt? I won't allow it to happen.

"Bones?" His hand moves again, close to my waist. I am struck again by how much I need him here. I haven't admitted it to him, and I don't know if I will. But I have finally accepted it myself. I am dealing with my inability to be completely independent, right now. I know I should show my appreciation. My body tilts towards him, only a few inches, but he feels it. His thigh tenses against mine. The other three remain oblivious.

"I'm fine," I say to him. To them all, in general. "Did you find Goodman?"

"He's getting everything set up with security. How did this guy get your car keys?" I shrug helplessly, slipping the photos from my pocket again, my mind reeling. Booth leans forward too, his chin brushing my shoulder as he peers over at the image of his head, bullet pierced. "Who are you…?" He asks softly.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Goodman looks at me for a long moment before asking me to take a seat. Booth stands behind me and I feel heat radiate from him. He fingers clutch the back of my chair, brushing the back of my neck. My head tilts against its will, as if encouraging his fleeting touch. I stiffen my spine and clear my throat.

"Did you find anything?" I ask, and Goodman reclines back in his chair. He taps his pen against his chin, watching me with impenetrable black eyes.

"No," he says. I don't know why, but I expected this response. "We reviewed the tapes from the time you arrived this morning, at 7.09 until you and Agent Booth returned to the car at lunch. There was no gap in the tape and it hasn't been tampered-"

"Are you sure? You do remember the incident of the stolen bones, right?" Booth asks, leaning forward. His torso his pressed to the back of my head. I pull my lip between my teeth, chiding my school-girl fixation.

"Agent Booth," Dr Goodman says patiently, "I am _certain_ these tapes have not been altered. Where was the letter left?"

"I found it between the handbrake and the seat," I reply meekly. "I don't know… maybe it was already there. Maybe we missed it…?" I look up at Booth, who stares down at me. His eyes are unseeing, lost in thought. I turn back to Goodman. "Either way he was in my car." Booth shakes his head.

"We parked in lot C, yesterday," he says. He turns his head to Goodman. "You had the executives here yesterday. Everyone was on their best behaviour and Bones was sent to lot C to park." I remember, now. How could I forget? Zach complained about it for hours, because Hodgins had to relinquish his space, too. "Is there security cameras there?" Goodman shifts a little, indignant.

"Of _course_ there is, Agent Booth," he says. "We pride ourselves on our-"

"Stolen bones," Booth says, his tone slightly ticked. I feel my lips tug a little. "We'll need to see the footage for yesterday. The entire day. In the mean time, I'm going to get us some takeaway for lunch. So much for eating out…" he turns on his heel, his body heat suddenly gone. I wonder at how much I notice the absence of him. When Goodman's door closes, my boss stands, tall and imposing.

"How are you holding up, Dr Brennan?" He asks. I inhale.

"I'm fine, sir," I reply, aware at how my fingers tremble ever so slightly. I am repulsed by my weakness, and how this person has instilled fear within me. I _am not_ afraid. I am _not_. My mantra doesn't work. I know I am.

"Agent Booth doesn't think so…" I let his insinuation linger in the air. "I will get the tapes from security. We can go through them together." I follow him through the Jeffersonian. We are silent for the majority of our journey. Despite having authority over every scientist here, I know Goodman has a strange attachment to the Anthropology department. Our time together in Christmas Quarantine brought us together. I don't show my feelings often. But I like Goodman. He is a good person. He has authority, which he uses, but beneath the exterior that radiates business, he is normal. He is in touch with the world. In ways I am not.

"How are you coping with the invasion of the federal agent?" He asks as we pass a tray of skeletal remains. I cannot help but notice that they are that of a young female. A pre-teen female. My job is ingrained so deeply within my mind. I find it difficult to switch off.

"Is there a movie reference in there?" I ask. Goodman smirks at me.

"Very good Dr Brennan. Finally get that TV?" I glance sideways at him.

"Nope. In answer to your question of how I am coping with Booth, if I told you he spends hours reciting movies from bygone eras would you understand?"

"Being taught the movie basics, then?" We enter the security room, eyeing the monitors that may hold the answer to my problem.

"_The Blob_, 1958, _The Fly_ also 1958, _Plan 9 From Outer Space _1959...the list goes on, sir," I say as we approach the security desk.

"I didn't realise Booth would be a B-Movie kind of guy…" Goodman replies. "Maybe a _blue_ movie…" I frown.

"I don't know what that means…?"

"Never mind. James," he smiles at the security guard who is immediately intimated by Goodman's stature and authority. Most people are. "Yesterday's security tapes that cover lot C? May we have them, please?" I like this about Goodman. He says 'please' as though he is asking a question. But I know he is not.

Booth returns with Chinese food which he doesn't make any attempt to eat because Goodman is forwarding the tape. We can see my car. I parked it in the morning and the space next to mine is empty until one fourteen when a red van parks next to it and effectively blocks the view. When it moves away at two eleven no one approaches my car until I arrive at six forty. I stayed a little late last night.

"Do you think that was him?" I ask when Goodman freezes over the van. When he pushes play, a man in a blue boiler suit gets out, carrying a box of tools. I notice how he doesn't go near me car. Not even when returning. Shaking my head, I sigh.

"He was there," Booth says, studying the screen for a long time. "But the view is blocked. _Dammit_!" When his fist bangs the desk, the Chinese cartons jolt a little. Goodman doesn't snap, like he normally would. I appreciate his patience. Booth has certainly not been affording us much of it, recently. "This is the only angle?" He asks, turning to my boss. Goodman nods. "Shit."

He's quiet for a long time.

"I'm taking the photos to the FBI. Maybe Wilcox can determine something." I cannot help how my eyes roll.

"Do you honestly expect her to? So far all O'Malley and Wilcox have done is waste their time." Booth shakes his head.

"If it shows up nothing then at least we've eliminated something. Plus," he smiles a little. "I can start on making a list of weapon retailers in the greater DC area. I might get lucky." I know he won't. We don't even know what make of gun he bought.

Goodman's cell phone rings and he excuses himself, leaving the office. "What if you don't get lucky?" I ask. Booth chuckles.

"I'll just have to take you to bed and make him really, _really_ angry. Maybe then he'll show me his gun." He pulls chopsticks from their paper casing, chuckles a little and begins to eat soft noodles with an odd smile.

I blush a little, removing my own chopsticks. "Maybe that wouldn't be so bad…" I whisper. Booth swallows.

"What?" He asks.

"Nothing," I reply, thankful he hasn't heard. And as he goes back to eating his lunch, I go back to imagining just how we might make my adoring fan angry.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Any of my fellow X-Philes out there will have caught the Hollywood A.D. reference with _Plan 9 from Outer Space_. Sorry, couldn't resist, this was one of my favourite episodes of all time - because apparently David Duchovny was a genius in writing/directing it.

Please review! Oh pretty please…


	13. A Course of Action

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. They belong to Fox.

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. It's been excellent. I love opening my mail box to find new comments! Which is a hint that I want more. So get reading and then get clicking!

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_She's doing yoga again. _

_But instead of filling me with desire and a need to touch her, I am filled with undeniable rage that takes hold of me. She doesn't do yoga in front of anyone. Or at least, she didn't. _

_He's there. Sitting on her floor, his knees drawn up while he balances a telephone book. Occasionally he glances up, his gaze lingering on her nimble body as she mediates quietly. With her eyes closed, she does not know how he watches her. _

_She's wearing her leggings, again. And a t-shirt. Not her usual attire. I wonder if she's covering her body so he won't see what she looks like beneath her clothes. I feel a small sense of gratification in believing this. Maybe she doesn't want him at all. Perhaps I have been imagining those fleeting glances between them. _

_When she flexes her arms, he looks away guiltily. I resume watching her. She's beautiful. Tonight she's pulled her hair into a knot at the base of her neck. She wears no jewellery and she looks so relaxed. _

_I have turned all my lights off, so I can watch her properly. Her little protector won't even notice I am here. Which is exactly as I want it. The bastard thinks he can swoop in like the macho FBI agent and save the day. Like I would ever hurt her. It's him I want to hurt._

_Temperance rolls her neck, and I watch how her lips tremble a little. _

"_What's the matter…?" I whisper aloud, as she lifts her hand and presses her fingers to her mouth. He notices in a second, shoving the book aside, scooting across the floor to kneel before her. He momentarily blocks my view until she scrambles to her feet. She's waving her hands, and I know she's assuring him she's alright. But I can see she's not._

"_Don't cry…" I say. He stands too, taking her bare arms in his hands. He strokes her skin, up and down, his eyes filled with a compassion that makes me sick. She does not need him! How long will it take before she will realise that? My letter has only strengthened the bond. He hasn't flinched. I ought to admire his gall. But I despise him for assuming he can stay where he is. Insinuating himself, day by day, into her life. _

_A strand of hair has fallen over her face, and he brushes it aside. Her eyes close and her lips part. A moment transpires between them and I wonder if he's going to kiss her. He looks at her as though he will. My stomach tightens considerably. I feel all my anxiousness build and I pray he will not lower his head. I'm afraid she'll lean into him. That she'll enjoy it!_

_He proves his gentlemanly status by reclining his head a little, putting space between their mouths. But his arms slip around her tiny waist, encircling all of her. She leans against him, her nose pressed to his chest. Her fingers clutch at his back, arching, her nails I know, will make crescent moon shapes in his skin. But he doesn't flinch or move away. If anything, he holds her tighter. _

_I have caused this._

_Temperance is frightened by me. Does she believe I will try to harm her? Ridiculous! I've fallen in love with her. I do not wish to cause her pain. _

_He leans back, bringing his hands to her shoulders. He says something. I cannot lip read, but I can imagine what promises he is making. I imagine how he offers to comfort her and I can imagine all too vividly how he wants to comfort her. _

_She nods a little and he presses a kiss to her forehead. Temperance doesn't feel uncomfortable with him, anymore. She is enjoying his company and this is a bad thing for me. I cannot bear that she would want him in her life. Maybe if I can lure her from his side… maybe if I can bring us together, just the two of us…_

_I don't know how to accomplish this. He's been tied to her every second since discovering my devotion to her. Maybe if I sleep on it, I will think of something that will effectively eliminate him. I am certain she'll accept me and what I have done when she sees how much I love her. She hasn't had anyone in her life in such a long time. She's been alone. I can fill the gap. I can be her companion and she will need me as I need her._

_We'll need each other._

_I spoke to my therapist today. He said I should stop thinking about the person I refer to as 'my ideal'. He says I need to concentrate on forming basic relationships with people instead of trying to leap into one with someone who doesn't even know me. I didn't go into details, of course. It would only arouse suspicion and I do not want him to know._

_According to his psychological evaluation I am cold towards humanity, which is rooted in my lack of confidence. He says I may think I do not harbour a violent nature, but if I continue to bottle my emotions I will, eventually explode, like a cork, this is the metaphor he used. He said I will unleash my suppressed anger and could end up hurting myself. _

_His course of action was to assign me the task of engaging every customer I meet in conversation. He said this will be a confidence builder. _

_I haven't tried, yet. I spend most of my time thinking about Temperance. But then, what does he know, anyway? He thinks she won't want me. I know he does. But when she meets me, she will. When I touch her for the first time the barriers will come down and she will never want that bastard to touch her again._


	14. What She Gives

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **I can only dream…

**Rating: **M for sex, language and probably violence. I'm a violent person. Ha!

**A/N: **Woo! I am so loving the reviews! I am glad you're liking this. I hope I can maintain the pace until the end.

_What She Gives_

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I cannot sleep.

I turn uncomfortably on Brennan's sofa, pulling the afghan to my chin, staring at the twisting greyed shadows on the ceiling above my head.

From her bedroom, a soft melodic tune that reminds me of islands and palm trees plays. I have grown used to the sound of music in Brennan's apartment. Especially a night. _These_ nights. She says it helps her sleep. I don't mind. Normally it doesn't bother me. But tonight is different.

She cried tonight. I hate it when she cries. Normally she doesn't. Ever. But she released a torrent of withheld fears tonight. As though all her thoughts had been building up until she was literally consumed by them. I didn't quite know what to do. I half expected her to shove me away whenever I embraced her. But she did not. She clung to me. It made my brain whirl into action as I automatically wondered what it meant.

She reached for me. She allowed herself to cry and I ask myself continually if she _wanted_ me to comfort her. I like to believe she did.

I promised her I would keep her safe. She said she knew I would do everything within my power but that, I of all people should know human power sometimes isn't enough. I should know this, but lying here, I have convinced myself I am invincible. I am, because I have to protect her.

When she cried, I knew then how important it was that she be protected. I knew then that I would do anything to ensure she was. If that meant taking a bullet from the lunatic that watches her, then I would. This knowledge scares me. Not because I am afraid of guns, I carry one, for Christ's sake. I am afraid of what this means for my feelings. Do I feel something towards Brennan that even I have not yet realised? Or have I realised and I am not willing to accept?

I throw my emotions backward and forward, theorising… until I am too tired even for sleep. I kick off the blanket, padding across her apartment, into the kitchen where I pour myself a glass of water. Back in the living room I stare out her window at the road below. While I continue to mentally torture myself, I listen to Brennan's music, drifting through the air seeping into my mind. She has so many CDs filled with World Music. I am starting to quite like the one from Shanghai that she took from her car earlier in the week. She's played it three nights in a row. I know this track by heart. Any second now, a strange little stringed instrument will be introduced.

I wait on it. But I hear only the muffled sobs. My body freezes and I wonder what I ought to do. I thought she'd cried all she needed to. But apparently there was enough frustration inside to carry a fresh bout of bedtime tears.

I set aside my glass of water, my footsteps silent as I move to her bedroom door. The gap is small, but I glance inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness within. She's buried beneath her bedcovers, her nose pressed against her pillow. I hear the strangled gasps she takes, trying to be silent.

My chest constricts as she mumbles into the cotton, I wonder if she's praying. Only Brennan doesn't believe in God. She doesn't believe in any religion except science. Maybe she's praying to find strength within herself. I know how she hates feeling as she does.

I ease the door open, slipping into her bedroom, breathing in the scent of her. I have only been permitted entry into this floral haven a twice since I began to stay. She's intensely private about her bedroom and I know I should respect that, now. I should ask from the doorway is she is okay. But I gamble, risking her wrath. At the edge of her bed, I pull back the covers, sitting on the edge. She starts, a gasp falling from her chest.

"_Booth_!" She cries, when she realises it's me. Her exclamation is punctuated by a cough, and she reaches for me, her arms around me, her fingers in my hair. I cradle her against me, wondering at how my heart feels something it never has before. Temperance Brennan is more than just my fucking partner and I am not sure I can emotionally accept the consequences. But instead of pulling away, like I should, my fingers sink into her hair, curving around her skull.

The track on her CD changes.

She looks at me, her face illuminated by the whitish glow from the stereo's digital numbers. Her eyes are wide, rounded orbs and she looks as though she is either horrified at what I am doing or excited by it. Or she hasn't decided yet. Either way, she says nothing. Her lips tremble a little, her breathing comes in sharp, suffocated gulps and I am quite astounded by how I want to fill her lungs with oxygen. How I want her to breathe again.

"It's alright…" I say, but she shakes her head, furiously. My hand falls away and silky stands fly about her face. Whipping at her cheeks.

"It's not alright, Booth," she says, dropping her hands from my shoulders, digging into the cotton beneath us. "I should have listened at the beginning… when I received that first damn letter." My hand falls over hers, and after a few seconds her fist relaxes and our fingers entwine. I rub my thumb over her knuckles, noticing how her breath catches in her throat. She looks down then up, her eyes meeting mine in the murky darkness. I see how the light catches the teary sheen that covers her irises.

"You're too strong to admit defeat just like that," I assure her, lifting my free hand, brushing aside a sleek strand of hair from her forehead. She doesn't move. "Your ability to maintain a fearless stance, Bones, is admirable, if it weren't foolish sometimes." She nods, shifting on the bed. "Are you alright, now?" I ask, slipping my hand from hers. She nods again. "Okay well, you should sleep then." When I move to get up, her fingers encircle my wrist, tight, warm. I stiffen, our eyes meet again, and this time it is different.

"I am not coming on to you, or anything," she says quite softly, "but would you stay?" I am overwhelmed by how nice it is she would ask. When she shuffles across the bed, I slip beneath the covers and she burrows into me. It feels like we're meant to be here. Like we've been doing it for all eternity. It seems as though she fits against my side, her head tucked beneath my chin.

I wish she was coming on to me. But for now, I will take what she gives and be grateful.


	15. The Call

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Rating: **M… and don't worry guys, I will get there eventually. Just not yet… ha!

**A/N: **The reviews for this story have been fantastic. Thanks! I hope everyone will continue to read!

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Something isn't right.

Booth has been extraordinarily quiet these few days. Since I…

I blush every time the thoughts pass through my mind. _Since I invited him into my bed_. No sex, no touching. He held me, we talked and I fell asleep. The best night's sleep in what felt like forever. When I woke, he'd already made coffee and he was standing at the window, dressed for business. Dressed in his suit.

And although he'd been vigilant over my every movement, leaving me alone only when I am in the Jeffersonian, like now, he has been distant all the same. I wonder if maybe I have done something. Maybe I was reading all the signs wrong. I am not good with signs. I want to speak to Angela, but she'll just behave all giddy as though us lying together in bed is monumental.

I tap idly at my keyboard for a few minutes, thinking about what important job Booth had to do that required him to rush off to the FBI Headquarters at such short notice. It was almost as though he remembered something. But he'd said nothing. Except to tell me not to leave the building. As if I would. I have a mountain of work to get through today and thus far, I haven't done very much.

"Erm… Dr Brennan?" I look up, and Zach hovers in the doorway, clutching a skull beneath his latex covered hands. He shifts a little awkwardly. "Jane Doe?" I feel my cheeks flush a little. I was meant to be working with Zach this afternoon in the identification of Jane Doe. Our newest Jane Doe. I push my chair away from my desk and smile.

"I'm coming now, Zach," I say, slipping my arms into my lab coat and buttoning it down. He doesn't move. "Is everything okay?" I ask slowly. His eyes shift around my office.

"Where's Agent Booth?" Everyone has noticed Booth's presence. He's a fixture at the Jeffersonian, now. I am not sure whether it is unnerving or endearing. He cannot stay here forever. He cannot invade my office forever. I look at the strewn files on the floor, where he was sitting earlier this morning. Before he got up and left.

"He had work to do at his own office," I say, shrugging a little. Zach doesn't speak, but I see a questioning forming in his eyes. I ignore it, because I don't want to have to explain how Booth hasn't been his normal, innuendo wielding self, recently. "Shall we?" I gesture to the skull in his hands.

I feel at home in the lab. I know what's going on and I am not confused by signs and things which I do not understand. There is no pop culture, here. I am trained to expert level and when someone talks, I rarely have to use the phrase which makes Booth glare. 'I don't know what that means'. Only occasionally, and normally when Booth is around.

But scientifically, I know what everything means here, and it offers a strange sense of comfort.

"The feet, Dr Brennan," Zach says. He's assembled the woman's body on the gurney, and I am impressed by how he had no questions to ask. I move to the bottom, leaning over to examine the bones. I have been interested in feet since I first began my study of anthropology. Comprising of half the body's bones, it's one of the most intricate parts of human physiology.

"All of the metatarsal bones are broken…" I say. "Almost as if she's been beaten." Severely beaten. I think of Booth, and his x-rays that I shouldn't have seen. He didn't divulge what had happened and suddenly I want to know. I make a mental note to try to ask him later, because I sense she would like to release his demons. To someone. Maybe me…

"The caleaneus is fractured, Dr Brennan," Zach touches what would have been the woman's heel. "It's strange… for such extensive damage to her feet, the rest of her bones show no evidence of beating…" I think about Booth again, and how he sustained injuries consistent with shielding another person. Maybe our Jane Doe was doing the same thing. Or maybe she fell.

I remember how we found the woman in the tunnel. She had extensive damage to her feet, too.

"Has Angela drawn a sketch yet?" I ask, straightening. Zach shakes his head.

"She's working on it now," he hesitates. "Hodgins is theorising that we could have solider, here…" He says. I slip my hands into my lab coat.

"We may do…" I reply. "But we cannot be sure until we get an ID." I sense someone has joined us, and I turn. Goodman is standing in the doorway, looking down at the skeleton with a slight saddened expression. "Is everything alright, sir?" I ask, stepping aside as he moves toward the gurney. He nods, slowly.

"Yes, Dr Brennan. We're all used to seeing these people but it never gets easier imagining how they died, does it?" I do not know how to explain my ability to block out death. I feel nothing, when I look at these Bones. It's Booth who makes me feel something towards them. It's Booth who taught me how to be sympathetic. For that reason, I don't launch into a scientific reasoning spiel. I nod, instead.

"No sir, it does not." My boss turns his head, an impassiveness passing over his features. His dark eyes scan my face, like how a father would look towards his daughter. He conveyed his worry. I want to shake his concern off. I am suffocated by concern, these days. "I'm fine, Dr Goodman," I say and he laughs a little.

"You're becoming more intuitive by the day, Dr Brennan. What _has_ Agent Booth been teaching you? I imagine you haven't been playing Scrabble." I smile a little, dropping my eyes to the gurney. I hope my girlish thoughts don't show.

"We played Scrabble once," I say, adjusting Jane Doe's pelvis a little. "I whipped his ass, of course." As soon as I hear Angela's thundering laughter from behind Goodman, I know I have said the wrong thing.

"I imagine he liked that greatly," she says, swinging a sketch book by her side. Goodman glares at her.

"It wasn't an innuendo, Miss Montenegro," he chides. She's unfazed, and laughs again. "Have you completed a sketch of our victim?" Angela turns her sketchpad for our inspection. We crowd round, drinking in the image of the woman's chiselled features, high cheek bones, rounded jaw, and the deep cupid's bow set of her lips. She is beautiful and still dead. I swallow my regret.

"Any more stalker letters?" Angela asks when I take the book from her and turn away. My shoulders stiffen at the mention of the man who's turned my life upside down. My resentment grows.

"No," I reply, and hope my tone closes the subject. It does not.

"I seen Booth run from the building as if he was being chased by Big Foot. What happened?" I sigh.

"I don't know, Angela. He had work to do." I lift my eyes to meet everyone's expectant gazes, even Goodman. "Can we continue, please?" I hate how my voice bites impatiently and how obvious it is that I don't want to talk about Booth. The others might not notice, I can only hope, but Angela will detect it at once. I carefully avoid looking at her.

Shoving my hands into my pockets again, I turn back to the gurney. Zach clears his throat and begins to speak. After a few moments, my cell phone vibrates against my hand.

"Excuse me," I say, slipping outside the lab. "Brennan?" I brush pull off my gloves, dropping them into my pocket. There is a pause.

"Dr Brennan? Yes, hello. I'm Dr Bishop from Sibley Memorial Hospital. I've been asked to call you about your partner." My heart thuds and my blood pumps inside my ears. I cannot concentrate because I do not know what I am hearing.

"What happened to him?" I ask, pressing my hand against the wall for stability. Inside the lab, I see everyone turn to look at me through the doorway. They've frozen, their eyes wide.

"He's been shot, Dr Brennan."

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Okay… the information I got about the bones I got from researching so apologies if I have gotten anything wrong. Sibley Memorial Hospital is real, according to the search engine of infinite knowledge, _Google_. So I hope this is as accurate as possible.

Don't forget to _review!_


	16. Beyond the Line

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters are not mine. Except for the stalker. He's mine. I don't think Fox would want him anyway…

**Rating: **This is an M rated story. If you don't like sex then please do not read. I am not holding your head against the screen.

**A/N: **I had to write another chapter today because even I am worried about what's happening. Okay… maybe not quite, but I do have a lot of inspiration today. So I hope you like.

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_What have I done?_

_My hands shake as I toss my weapon into the Potomac, my fingers stained in blood. His blood! I pulled the trigger on a federal agent. I may have killed him._

_I might have become a murderer._

_Why do I not feel more remorse? Have I become a monster? _

_I wipe my hands on my jeans, turning back to my car. The walkway along the river is deserted, unusual for a June afternoon. I am grateful for the privacy. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I idly flick through the radio stations with my free hand. I hear nothing, and my mind whirls._

_I don't feel as though I have done a bad thing. Blood surges through my veins and I feel like a soldier who has taken out the enemy. I feel as though I have reclaimed what's rightfully mine from the hands of another. My mind bombards me with images of the guy, lying on the ground, blood pooling next to his body. I shot him, close enough to splatter his blood on my clothes. _

_I am repulsed by it, seeping deeper and deeper into the fibres I wear. _

_I crouched from the shadows of the FBI garage, kneeling over him as he finally feel unconscious. I turned him, soaking my own skin with the crimson liquid that leaked from his body. I imagine her face when she sees him for the first time. This is my only regret. If I have killed him, she'll mourn him for awhile. But then she's mine._

_I drive through DC, and when a catch someone's eye I wonder if they can imagine what I've done. I see a mother with her baby, she smiles a little at me. She cannot see my blood stained jeans or the dark reddish brown under my fingernails. She does not know that I just tossed a possible murder weapon into the river. She doesn't know about the FBI agent._

_When I reach my apartment, I know I have to be careful because I am in her neighbourhood and one wrong move will alert someone. I cannot be suspicious. _

_I turn off the engine and slip from the car, taking my jacket from the passenger seat, positioning it carefully over the speckled blood on my jeans. I lock the door, and glance up and down the street, across the road, at her building, someone goes inside. I move fast, entering my access code. When I am inside the foyer, I exhale. No one ever notices me in this building. Or if they do, they don't acknowledge me._

_I took a personal day today. I searched for my opportunity to shoot him. I was going to do it, one way or another. The fact that he rushed off without her worked out perfectly. It saved her the anguish of looking at his face, pained and horrified as the bullet penetrated and he fell, broken. _

_Trying to kill him was premeditated. This should scare me, but I cannot help but admire my cunning. He didn't see my face, I was the invisible assailant, smarter than the Sniper-cum-FBI agent! I was quiet, and I outsmarted him. His mind was somewhere else, I know, but this doesn't ebb at the pride I feel._

_Kicking off my shoes, I flick on the computer and I move into the bathroom. I am shocked at what I see there. Somewhat frightened, too. _

_My eyes were desolate and deranged. I never knew I was capable of such evil. I realise now that there is no going back. I was supposed to limit myself. There was supposed to be moderation. The plan was to observe. Silently observe and sometimes fantasise. Fantasies are okay. But now I have crossed the line between interested and observant to obsessed. I am obsessed with Temperance Brennan and my actions today reflect that._

_I shower, revelling in my achievement. When I am dried, I sit in front of the computer and open Photoshop. This is how I enjoy my nights. But since I have the full day off, I might as well enjoy that. I know I shouldn't get such a kick from putting her head on filthy porno stars, but I cannot help it. I have a good imagination. _

_The one I sent her was the best._

_I can imagine the blush on those demure cheeks. I bet she's wild in bed though. And he'll never find out. If he's not dead now, he will be. I'd do this all again, if it meant ensuring he was out of the picture forever. _

_I wonder if she's been alerted, yet. How is she? Does she cry for him. She probably thinks she's in love with the bastard. As if he'd ever make her happy. I offer her stability. I will, at least, when she finally comes into my arms. She'll understand my reasoning._

_I position her head on the body of a busty woman, legs spread. As soon as my artistic design is complete, I feel my body harden in response to her. Then I wonder if she's made him hard and I cannot concentrate. So I turn to my window and look into her apartment. No one is there. I rarely see what goes on in there at night, now, because the drapes are almost always closed. Maybe he's already slept with her. Maybe…_

_I cannot allow myself to indulge in this meaningless thought again. It doesn't matter who she's taken to bed before, I will be the next person._

_Smiling a little, I feel myself respond to the image of us together. He's gone. He's no longer a factor. _

_Temperance Brennan is mine._

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Woo. Another chapter finished. I am going to go make dinner now, before my poor husband starves to death.

Please review!


	17. Promises

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Rating: **This story is rated M.

**A/N: **I should probably step away from the computer. Actually, I _should_, not probably about it. But my fingers won't stop moving over the keys… stop me… please stop me… Actually, before you stop me, can you read this chapter and review? Thanks!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

She storms into my room, her breath coming in uneven bursts as she meets my eyes and tries her damnest not to cry. I watch the watery layer shimmer as she blames herself for my condition. She stands at the bottom of my bed, her lower lip pulled between her teeth.

"How are you?" She asks softly, her fingers clutched tightly around the metal frame. Her lip trembles a little as she does.

"I'm okay, Bones," I reassure her, folding my hands atop my torso. "Luckily the guy has a seriously bad aim." She looks at the gauzy patch that covers the bullet wound in my shoulder. "He was meant to hit either my head or my heart, but damn… he was way off." She try to smile, but her eyes flicker back to my face and she looks stern, angry, almost.

"It was close enough, Booth and that's _not_ funny," she snaps. I try to look contrite as she rounds my bed and sits in the chair beside me. "When I got the call, I thought the worst." Her fingers dance awkwardly on the bed and I know she wants to cover my hand with hers. I know she wants to seek out warmth to reassure herself that I really am okay. I also know she won't do it because it's difficult for her to admit she needs to.

I save her the agony, and from my palm to hers. Her fingers instantly part and welcome mine.

We are quiet for a few moment until she exhales a heaving sigh through her nose. "You're here because of me," she says, crossing her legs, closing her eyes.

"I'm here because I failed to acknowledge that the enemy was close-" she shakes her head, opening her eyes again, the blue within blazes angrily and I understand how she needs to claim blame for this. But I cannot let her.

"Cut the 'I'm meant to be a trained sniper' speech, Booth!" She snaps, pulling her hand away. "You're here because you got in too deep with _me_." I cannot imagine ever been too involved in Brennan's life. I have felt bizarre things since I the beginning to this crazy fiasco. For the past few days my mind has been elsewhere while I tried to put my thoughts and my rapidly spiralling feelings into some kind of order. It hasn't been fair on Brennan, but I needed to pull away. "This has to stop-"

"No," I say. She looks at me, a pained expression on her face. "Don't _you _start your bull, either, Bones!" My tone warns and she closes her mouth. "This isn't a game, do you understand? We can't just quit whenever the going gets tough." It's been tough for a long time, now. In relative time, it hasn't, but emotionally, we've been through a lot. Especially Brennan. Every day her determination ebbs away a little. She's strong. Steely strong, but everyone's resolve rusts away a little. Hers included.

"Why did you leave so fast today?" She asks, daring to touch me again. Her fingers insinuate themselves in my air, stroking along my skull until she finds the bump where my head impacted the concrete in the garage. I see her wince a little.

"I recognised my shirt from the photograph," I say, and she looks a me with a frown. "When he sent you the photograph of me with the…" I know if I say 'bullet hole' she'll get that wounded, frightened look again. So I evade it. "I was wearing a blue shirt. I wore it the night we went to get groceries," I remember this night so vividly because I almost convinced myself we were like a real couple, doing normal things, instead of me asking like her bodyguard. "So I figured that was where he took the picture. I went to the store and collected video tapes of that night and then took them to the Bureau. I was on my back to the Jeffersonian when…" she nods, her fingers tighten in my hair. I feel pain shoot through my skull, and my flinching alerts her to the ache.

"Did the tapes show up anything?" She asks. She probably thinks I don't notice how her slim little fingers move along my cheek bone, to my jaw and eventually pull away.

"Only his back…" I whisper, defeat evident in my voice.

"But that's good!" She clutches my fingers tight. "We have something. Is he tall? Does he have dark hair or light hair?" I smile a little at her, reaching out and touching face. I apply little pressure and her eyes flutter closed. She reaches up, pressing my hand tight to her cheek. She feels warm and soft. When she turns her head a little and kisses the centre of my palm, I am not quite sure how I ought to react.

She watches me as she does it, silently requesting my permission. When I don't protest, she knows it's okay. "Will you tell me about him…?" I exhale, my hand slipping from her face. I regret the loss.

"Five nine, hundred and eighty pounds. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt. We didn't see his car, because it was parked out of sight," I clear my throat. "Wilcox got a clear shot of the camera when he dropped his arm. She enhanced the image and we determined it was a Nikon. But essentially, it means nothing." Brennan nods her head, glancing down at her hands, folded atop her thighs. She looks tired.

"It's something, Booth. It's more than what we had." I appreciate how she tries to reassure me that I'm doing a good job. But I'm not. I haven't caught him, and until I do, nothing is enough. "Maybe when he's left evidence at the scene." I shrug and my shoulder protests. "Booth…" her voice is quiet, her head dipped. "If you'd died…" she doesn't finish her sentence. I wonder if she wants to reveal some deep heart-wrenching emotion. She doesn't want to share.

"I didn't," I tell her. "When I get out of here, Bones…" she looks up, her eyes watery again.

"Promises, Booth?" She hates promises. "Only liars make promises." I swallow, and press on anyhow.

"Something's changing, Brennan," I say. "I want to find out what." Her lovely eyes brighten a little, maybe in hope, maybe she's glad, I cannot be sure but I like it.

"Some promises are okay, I suppose," she says.

I intend to keep mine.


	18. Awaiting Release

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Rating: **This is an M rated story.

**A/N: **Well… not a single person volunteered to help me away from the computer. You're slave-drivers! Every one of you! Apparently a lot of you thought my husband should starve, too. Interesting, what people would do for another chapter.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth shifts against my sofa, shaking the newspaper. His pen hovers over the crossword puzzle, his forehead marred in a concentrative frown. I watch him over my computer, wondering at how much my fictional hero really does remind me of him. Especially these days. With the sexual tension…

"Bones… eight down… '_A projection near to a condyle but not part of the joint_'?" I smile at him. He looks at me with wide, expectant eyes. I do not need to think of the answer, so the time I have can be spent analysing the handsome severity of his jaw. "Bones?" It seems I have taken too long…

"Epicondyle," I say, and he counts the letters into his crossword puzzle, and grins at me.

"You're a genius, Bones… genius." I half shrug.

"Yes, I know." His eyes flicker up from the _New York Times_ and he chuckles.

"Of course you do," he says, setting his pencil on the coffee table. I type a few lines, realising that I don't even know what I am writing about. I notice how he massages his wounded shoulder with the base of his palm, wincing a little. He's only been out of hospital two days and already he's acting as though he was never hurt at all.

My hands slip off the keyboard and I think about his promise. He wanted to know what's changed between us, and I've come to realise I do, too. I feel at ease with Booth, now. As he sits on my sofa, feet propped on my coffee table, his hair dishevelled, I wonder at why my spine is not stiff with tension. Only a couple of weeks ago, his very presence unnerved me.

Then there is the 'bed' situation. His shoulder is badly bruised, and he cannot sleep on my sofa, so I volunteered by bed. But while I assumed we would simply switch places, he refused to hear of it, and subsequently we have spent the past two nights lying on opposite sides of the mattress, careful not to touch. Even our legs.

But in sleep, I have no control over the direction my body takes and on both occasions, I have found myself curled into his side, my arms splayed across his torso. When I woke this morning, I felt the firm abdominal muscles flex and ripple beneath my touch and I was quite unprepared for the way it made me feel.

I was even less prepared for how his arousal had brushed my wrist and how he murmured my name in his sleep. I had been a fool and leapt away like a virginal teenager. I've never gotten out of bed so quickly in my life. When he woke, I could barely look at him. But as the morning as wore on, I have been captivated by his unshaven face, his concentrating eyes and the memory of how his body had responded to me, even in sleep. I have already permitted myself to fantasise about how he'd respond to me when he's awake. I shouldn't allow myself.

I stand, raking my fingers through my hair. "Do you want more coffee?" I ask, and he smiles, passing to me what has now become 'his' mug. It feels strange, as though he and I have been doing this forever. As though this is a routine that we have somehow fallen into. I should be frightened by it, but somehow, I am not.

"Bones?" I stare dazedly at him and he chuckles. "Are you alright?" I straighten.

"Fine. How's your shoulder?" He glances down, subconsciously passing his fingers over the wound.

"I'll live," he says. "Are you sure you're…" I nod briskly, taking my own mug and moving into the kitchen as quickly as I can. I welcome the seclusion. I can privately think without his eyes curiously probing my mind. I'm not myself, and I wish I could shake off this new more emotional Temperance Brennan. I was comfortable with the old me.

I spoon coffee into the mugs and listen to the water as it boils. While I wait, I drop my head into my hands, massaging my aching temples. I have too many thoughts, too much to wonder about. Tomorrow, when I go to work I will have to listen to Angela as she probes me about what's going on. I cannot cope with everyone's prying - everyone asking about the guy who shot Booth and worse, asking about my relationship. I don't have a relationship… Booth and I are not going to enter one, either! It wouldn't be logical or right…

"You should stop analysing whatever it is your analysing, Bones," I start, spinning on my heel. He stands against the doorway, his hand pressed to his shoulder, his eyes darker than the coffee I am preparing. "It makes you frown." I force myself to relax my features, to smile a little, even. I don't fool, him, though. "If it's meant to happen it will happen. Worrying about it won't make the slightest bit of difference." I feel my cheeks stain and I shake my head.

"What will?" The kettle clicks, but I ignore it.

"Whatever it is you're worried about." He drops his hand, grinning a little. I know what he's thinking about, and I don't know how I ought to respond. He _knows _what's on my mind, but he is vague and cryptic, as though he doesn't want to invade my privacy. But damn… he invades every part of me. Conscious and subconscious, it doesn't matter. He's there!

"I'm not…" I turn to the kettle, shaking my head. My hands tremble as I pour equal amounts of water into each mug. The scent of coffee beans swirl in the air, and I inhale. "Booth…" When I turn, my heart leaps into my throat. He's right behind me, his chest inches from my nose. I blink, stepping back a little. "Coffee?" He takes the mug and then sets it aside, shifting close to me. I cannot handle the surge of emotions that course through my veins.

"What's wrong, Bones?" He asks, his hands on either side of me, barricading me against the counter. I should feel trapped, but instead of worrying about the lack of space between my body and his, all I can concentrate on his how good he smells, a mixture of coffee and soap and something that is so uniquely him.

"We've changed…" I say and he nods a little. "I'm trying to deal with it…"

His arm slips around my waist, and he's against me. "I do want you, Temperance," he says, grinding his hips against mine. I feel how hard he is. His arousal makes me desperately wet and I throb with desire. When I rotate my own hips, he swallows the growl in his throat. "But not yet, okay? Soon… when this is over… I promise." Another promise. His second this week. I shouldn't trust him to keep them, but I do.

I nod. I expect him to move away, but he doesn't. His lips pass over mine, his tongue outlining my mouth. I am intoxicated by how amazing he feels, every inch of him is flush against me. Sweet anticipation glides through me as I wonder what he will feel like when he we finally touch each other without fearing what awaits us.

His hands slip beneath my shirt, cupping my breasts. My nipples harden at his touch, and he pinches the sensitive nubs. My lips part in a semi-gasp and his tongue slips between my lips. I yield to him, permitting him to do anything he wants to me He could take me right here, on the kitchen floor, and I will happily comply. "Soon, Bones," he says, pulling away. I whimper at the loss, my fingers reaching out to him. He's too far.

Booth takes his mug and leaves me alone. No matter how soon he intends on taking me to bed, it isn't soon enough.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Don't shoot me, okay? I am _getting _there. Patience is a virtue, my friends!


	19. Tasting Temperance: Part One

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me. If they do something you don't like, blame the Fox network. At least they get paid for doing this!

**Rating: **This is rated M.

**A/N: **The idea for this chapter struck me when I was tiding away things in the kitchen, looking out the window into my back garden. I will explain at the end.

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_Tasting Temperance Part One_

Cherry blossoms flutter through the air like real floral confetti. I watch as one of them lands in her hair and she takes it between her fingers, studying the delicate pink petal for a long moment before flicking it away.

The blooms are beginning to fade, fluttering to river below. The bank of the Potomac is a shimmer of majestic pink and it is probably one of the prettiest things I have seen.

Behind us, the Jefferson Memorial is buzzing with tourists. Neither of us notice, particularly. I don't know what compelled us to venture out of our apartment. He could be here. Watching us. But Brennan wanted air. She wanted to spend this weekend doing something besides fretting. I like how she sighs contentedly and picks another petal from the bench we sit on.

"What are you thinking about, Bones?" I ask and she turns her crystaline gaze to me.

"Nothing, really," she lies. I am partly hurt that she's closed her heart away again. This week as been one formal pleasantry after another. All business and no mention of the seeringly hot kiss we shared in her kitchen. It's almost as though she doesn't want to think about it. Or talk about it. Which is fine, with anyone else, it's perfectly okay. But this is _me_. How many horrific journeys do we have to complete before Brennan will finally open her heart to me and let me stay?

"Nothing..." I whisper, nodding my head, watching the gentle flow of the blossoms on the river. "I don't know what I am supposed to do, Bones... I-"

"Booth..." she turns a little, crossing her legs. Above our heads the sky darkens and a breeze rises, sending a blizzard of petals around us. Four that I can see land in her hair. She ignores them, this time. "I'm a very emotionally detached woman. I find it difficult to feel-" I swipe my hand, shaking my head in disgust. She glares at me. "What?"

"You weren't emotionally detached last Sunday when you were-" she cuts me off, standing, stepping away from me. She stops at the edge of the river, curling her fingers around the railing, her spine is stiff and her shoulders are taut. I watch her as she taps her foot idly. In the clouds, a rumble of thunder stretches across the city. It's been a humid week and the weather forecast has been predicting a down pour for days. "Fine..." I sigh, getting to my feet. "Prove to me, Bones... prove to me that you don't want to open up for me..." She stares steadfastedly ahead, her jaw tight. I brush my finger along the side of her breast, and her nipple hardens against the cotton shirt she wears. "I thought so," I say shaking my head. "When you want me, I'll be there for you, Bones. But I've never chased a woman, and I'm not going to start now."

I turn and walk away from her, to where I have parked my car. I am lying, of course. I have never chased a woman, perhaps, but I would chase her. At this moment, after everything, I would do anything to make her a permanent fixture in my life. But if she's unwilling to let me into her soul, what can I do?

My SUV is in sight when she races behind me, snagging my wrist with her hand. When I turn, her eyes blaze with anger. My mouth opens to ask her what has happened, when her palms collide with my chest and she shoves me. In the same instant, the clouds part and a torrent of humid rain falls down around us. I am instantly soaked, stumbling over the grass. She glares at me, stepping forward and shoving me again.

"Don't be such an insenstive bastard!" She cries, her fingers tightening around my shirt, shoving and pulling me at the same time. Thunder rumbles around us, violent and tempestuous. Brennan calls out, her voice lost in the wind. "I'm not worth the chase? Huh?" She shoves me so hard, I almost lose my footing. I reach out to her, but she slaps my hands away. "That's why I won't open to you! I need to be worth it!" I think she is crying, but I cannot be sure. I cannot distinguish between the rain that streaks her face and the tears.

She trembles, soaked through, but I don't think it's the water that makes her shake. I imagine it's her adrenaline and anger that has her this way. Her cotton shirt is soaked, and goose flesh puckers her skin. I see the lacy lines of her bra and wish I wasn't such a man. My body stiffens in response to her astounding loveliness. I step forward and she tries to push me away, but it's almost as though she has no strength left. I take her face in my hands, and run my thumbs over her cheek bones. She sobs, the sound louder than the crashing thunder high above our heads.

When I lower my head and kiss her, it's almost as if she hasn't just tried to kick my ass. Her fingers greedily seek out my face, rake through my hair and tug. I wince when she touches my shoulder, but her tongue is hot and distracting enough to numb the ache. She tastes divine. Wet strands of dark rust coloured hair cling to her sculpted cheeks and she's without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. When I recline back, she runs her tongue over her lips, catching a droplet of rain that drips from her brow.

The crowds have scattered for cover, but we're oblivious. Her nipples are tight, dark buds, and it's almost indecent. I don't care, I reach for her waist, pulling her hips against me and grinding my erection in the soft flesh of her belly. She whimpers against my ear, her breath hot. I want to pull up that summery skirt she wears and bury myself inside her lovely warm wetness. I know she is wet because her eyes convey every part of her to me. She leans against me and I slip my arms around her, my fingers dancing over the delicate and wonderful swell of her ass.

She tosses her head back and I run my tongue along her throat, tasting the fresh rain on her skin. There is an eloquence in how she responds to me. I realise we are two respectable adults behaving like horny teenagers and I pull back. "Home..." I growl at her, taking her fingers and lacing them with mine. I wonder if we'll make it back to her apartment before I have to have her. I think I might be in love. "Bones...?" I say and when she turns her molten gaze to look at me I think I might tell her my last thought. Instead, I squeeze her fingers and smile. "You're more than worth it."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was raining when I looked out my window. It's not unusual for Belfast. This thought struck me because I find rain so sexy. I also love cherry blossoms and, for anyone who's been to DC you will know that they really grow long the edge of the Potomac, right by the Jefferson Memorial. I really hope you liked this. I also think Booth and Brennan wouldn't enter a relationship without the smallest bit of conflict first...


	20. Witnessing Catastrophe

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: ** These characters do not belong to me. They belong to the Fox network.

**Rating: **This story is an M rated story.

**A/N: **Don't be confused. _Tasting Temperance Part Two _will be the next chapter, because no one said that the chapter have to be consecutive... did they?

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_I seen them leaving this morning. He glanced nervously down the street, never thinking to look above his head. If he had, he would have saw me. He would have saw how I angry I was that he was even still alive. The bastard is ruining my life with his inability to take a hint. I want to wrap my fingers around his throat and throttle every last breath from his lungs to ensure he is dead. If he keeps putting his damn hands on her the way he did as he helped her into his car, I will. _

_I don't know what compelled me to follow them. Maybe because it's Sunday and I have nothing else to do. I have already made four pictures of her today. So I grabbed my keys and made it to my car just as he pulled away from the curb. It took all my sleuth skill to follow him without being noticed. Federal agents are specially trained to notice people like me. _

_Perhaps I am extremely good at going unnoticed or maybe he was just too caught up in watching her. Either way, I pulled into the parking lot by the Jefferson Memorial and watched them through my shades as they began a silent walk along the Potomac. Ironic that only a short time ago I tossed my weapon into the same river, only half a kilometre away. I wonder if maybe the crime scene detectives found any evidence that could tie me to the scene. I washed all the blood off my body and threw my clothes away. But I know these high-tech wizards can use things like luminol in my car and still catch me. I've watched Forensic Files before. _

_She sat on a bench by the river, and he sat next to her, watching her as she stared at the rippling water before them. I removed my shades to get a better look at her. She was wearing a fluttery linen skirt a shade lighter than the cherry blossoms that fell down around her. I never imagined Temperance Brennan would be a woman that wore pink. But she suits it. Her cheeks had the same rosy tinge. I have noticed it. I wonder if it is his effect. The thought makes me growl and I clench my fingers into fists. _

_He said something and she shook her head. I noticed how his face fell. She turned towards him a little, and after a few seconds he swiped his hand angrily though the air. She looked startled, and his jaw tightened when she stook and stalked away from him, pressing her body against the metal railing that ran along the river. He was silent for a long time, watching her, wondering and when he stood with her. I almost expected that she'd have calmed down. But her spine was still stiff. He pissed her off and I love it! The cracks were already beginning to appear in their dysfunctional relationship. I was tempted to grin at my luck._

_When he moved close to her, he whispered something but she didn't move. Then he lifted his hand and traced the edge of her breast. Even from behind, I could see he had an effect on her. She liked it. I knew that their desire for one and other would be what kept them together. If she continued to respond to him like such a common whore, I know she'll make my angry. Even now, as I replay the events of today in my head, I can feel my gut twist at how that small touch made her fingers tighten around the railing. _

_When he stormed away she was after him in instant. She grabbed him, and shoved him. In the same instant, the Heaven's opened and rain cascaded down around them. Neither of them noticed. I turned my wipers on, watching through the glass as she pulled and shoved and shouted. When he reached for her, she pushed him again and he stumbled a little. But he was successful the second time. He reached and she allowed him in. He kissed her and it was almost as though Temperence was a dehydrated woman being offered a glorious oasis. Their mouths opened and when they pulled apart for the smallest moments I noticed how her hardened nipples were visible through her shirt. He noticed too. _

_After a few moments of rampant grinding, he said something and together they moved back towards his car. I knew they were going to have sex and there was nothing I could do. So I decided to give her the moment of pleasure that she so desperately wanted. And when he has finished using her body for his own gratification, I'll kill him. And I may kill her too, because her virtue is destroyed now. _

_I sit now in my apartment, wondering if there is any other way. I do love her, but I cannot see another way out. She is too busy thinking about him, too busy indulging in pointless wasted fantasies to realise how stupid her thoughts are. They cannot have a future and she's a fool to think for one moment I will ever allow them to be together. _

_I am driving myself mad, wondering what they are doing inside that apartment right now. How can she let him touch her? I pick up my telephone and toss it against the wall, allowing myself to scream. _

_"Yo! Trevor! Keep it down!" A voice cries from upstairs. I exhale, clenching and unclenching my hands, willing myself to relax._

_"Yeah Harold... sorry!" We only know each other's names from the mail boxes. I don't know anything about Harold Wickpeake from the apartment upstairs. I like it this way because they will never know what I am doing. _

_"You're crazy dude!" I kick the broken pieces of my telephone with my feet. I am not crazy! But Temperance is driving me that way!_

_I crouch, collecting the telephone into my palm. It's ruined. _

_As I begin to sweep up the mess, I release a shuddering breath. I am not crazy... and this will all be over soon._


	21. Tasting Temperance: Part Two

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Rating: **You guessed it. M

**A/N: **I decided to do this in two parts as this is the only chapters were I am staying within the same POV. Basically this is because Booth won the votes. Anyway, this is what so many of you have been waiting for... I hope it's worth it. MA fans will receive a longer less edited version later in the week. The beginning of this chapter was inspired by a suggestion made to me by DemonicAyngel. So thanks... I hope it's even close to what you wanted. Writing this chapter made me think of being sixteen again and writing with my best friend. That's because she's sitting with her own laptop, writing something she's keeping very veiled. But it was great - pan-pipes do it every time.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_Tasting Temperance Part Two_

She sits next to me in the car, her little nipples turning my mind into a pile of mush. I cannot concentrate on the road ahead because she trembles with cold and crosses her arms over her breasts. When she realises how desperately tight her nipples are, she takes her breasts into her hands and I cannot possibly think about anything else other than how she might look if she were touching herself. It's the incorrigible man in me, but imagining her pleasuring herself turns me on. She catches the look in my eye and smiles a little, flicking the heat on.

I flick it off, smirking a little. She glares at me, and when she reaches across again, I block her path. "It's summer, Bones," I reason. I don't mention that I really just don't want those pointed nipples to disappear. I'm quite contented to continue allowing them to distract me. She's an intelligent woman, and within a few seconds she realises what I'm doing. I see a blush creep into her cheeks and it endears me.

"Booth?" She gnaws on her lip and I know she is contemplating covering herself. I refuse to let her. She's beautiful, with the lacy edges of her bra visible through the saturated cloth and the rounded swell of her breasts too clear to me. I cannot remember being this hard in a long, long time. This has me wondering if I ever have been this hard before. I'm no trembling virgin, and neither is Brennan, but I don't think any woman has ever made me feel like this. Emotionally or physically.

"You're so hot, Bones..." I say, as the rain outside begins to ease. She smiles at me, sweet and seductive. I can't wait to touch her. To worship her lovely body. She tilts her head, soaked tendrils of dark hair clinging to her throat and her cheeks. I watch as she leans close her breasts brushing my arm as she reaches across the car and pulls my head towards her. I break hard and swerve, missing an oncoming car by a few feet. A horn rings through the air as her lips find mine and her little fingers dance over my thigh, touching me through the denim that I wear.

I groan aloud when she grinds the base of her hand into my erection. All the sex I have had in my life cannot compare to this one second when her little fingers touch me - not even skin on skin contact but it's still better than everything I've experienced before. It makes me wonder what the main event will be like. She slips her hand beneath my shirt, along my torso, the softness of her skin drives me crazy.

"Brennan..." I whisper into her lips, wondering at the horns behind me. "Please stop..." she touches me through my jeans again, the grinding motion makes me want to toss her into the back of my car and pound into her until neither of us can talk or walk.

She has the look of someone who has been irreversibly aroused as I put my hands against her shoulders and usher her back to the other side of the car. Her lips are rosy red and her cheeks are flushed. I press my foot to the accelerator and swallow hard. If I don't get us back to her apartment soon, I might be arrested for indecency. A federal officer, arrested for sex in a car? Yet, if she continues to touch herself like... _that_ then I may well persuade myself that it is worth it.

"Stop it," I say as she slips her hands beneath her shirt.

"I really... _really_ need you..." she whispers, the sound of her voice is filled with enough lust to drive me insane. I shift, willing myself to calm down. In ten minutes we will be at her apartment and the rest of our Sunday can be spent enjoying each other. First of my list is to touch those pointed nipples with my tongue. Even if only to convince myself that they don't taste as good as I imagine they do.

She controls herself for the remainder of the journey. We pull up next to her apartment and get out just as a blue car pulls into the curb facing her building. I wonder if our plans are obvious to any one who looks at us. Will they know that I am taking this woman to bed? I climb the steps to her building and she pushes me through the door, mumbling an apology against my mouth when my shoulder collides with the wall. I encircle her waist, my hands running along her spine, over her ass. When I thrust her against my groin, she groans loudly the sound lost inside my mouth. She grinds and rotates those little hips until I doubt my penis could take any more. I hold her away.

"Not yet..." I say, pushing the button for the elevator. I never would have imagined in a million years that Dr Temperance Brennan, the epitome of all things decent would be so sexually explicit in public. Especially within her own apartment complex. But even as we ride the elevator together, she tries to slip her hand into the waist of my jeans. Her fingers brush the head of my penis and I thrust away. "_Bones_!"

She jerks away, her eyes glazed and filled with a certain desperation that makes me want to take her, right where we stand. She smoothes her shirt down, trailing her fingers through the moist strands of hair that frame her face. She's the sexiest thing I have ever seen. The elevator chimes and the doors part. We're so close to her apartment, now. So close to euphoria. I knew we would eventually come to this point. From the moment I met the damn woman I have been fighting my desire to have her. I have fantasised so many times how and where we would do it. The semantics varied, but the outcome was always the same. It was perfect.

I feel at home here, now. The warmth that radiates from everything that she is and owns fills my being. I never want to be away from here. It's almost as though I belong here. My own apartment seems like a million miles away.

Brennan kicks off her sandals and turns to me, a naughty minx smile tugging at her lovely lips. I remove my own shoes, moving silently towards her. She blinks slowly, her arms slipping over my shoulders as our bodies touch. She's soft and warm. I kiss the line of her jaw as she tilts her head to look up at me. Her perfume lingers on her skin, mixed with the clean summer rain. I inhale her, my arms tightening. She's not a lot smaller than me, really, but she stands on her toes, reaching up to run her fingers along my face. I close my eyes, leaning into her.

"I thought you wanted to wait until this was over," she has the audacity to say, after arousing me and driving me crazy.

"Well, you kissed me," I say, not really sure who initiated the passionate beginning to our rampant state. She shakes her head.

"No-"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt. "I can't wait anymore, anyway." She steps away, flicking each pearly button on her shirt until she parts the folds. I see her now, like I have ever seen her before. She's fantastic. She's everything I imagined and more. Her nipples are still hard and the urge to taste them consumes me again. I pull the lacy cup away, kneeling. She inhales in anticipation and when my lips close around the turgid rosy bud, she sharply releases her breath. It tastes better than I had imagined. It takes like her skin, vanilla and Temperance. My tongue passes over the tightly puckered flesh, revelling in how it feels against my skin. She arches against me when I circle the hardened areole. I pull back, watching how my saliva glistens there. She watches me with dark eyes the colour of priceless sapphire. I maintain her gaze, drinking in her reaction when I lick along the bottom of her breast, back to her stiffened nipple. Her lips part and she sinks her nails into my shoulders.

My fingers unzip her skirt and the pinkish linen pools at her feet. She wears panties that match her bra. I slip my fingers into them and ease them over her thighs, past her knees. She complies to my mumbled encouragement and steps out. "Bedroom?" She asks, towering naked above me. She's like a Goddess, perfect and feminine and all I want.

I pull the drapes over her window, plunging the bedroom into a hazy darkness. I don't mind, as long as I can see her. When I begin the slow unbuttoning of my shirt, her lips taste each part of my skin that I expose. I love how she offers my nipples the same attention that I gave hers. Her fingers dance over my arms, my back, digging her nails into my flesh. I wince, wondering at how much the pain arouses me.

When we tumble to her bed, our hands are frenzied and our kisses breathless. She rests her weight on my groin and parts her thighs. I cannot believe how aroused she is when I slip into her. We release a breath in perfect unison, our fingers linking as she rocks against me. I have imagined she'd be so tight. Her hair spills over her shoulders, over her breasts and I push it away to admire how stunning she looks in the muted hue of her bedroom. The smallest glimmer of sunlight peeks through the clouds, through the minute parting in her drapes and catches her hair. She looks angelic, the reddish molten captivates me as she rocks her hips against mine.

Her muscles contract around me, and she spasms, calling my name at the top of her voice. The sound ripples through her bedroom as she pulsates around me. I come inside her, my fingers sinking into the silky beauty that is her hair. I am breathlessly sated in ways I never have before.

This is perfect. I feel her slouch against me and I wonder if now is the time to confess my love.

I don't.

And I soon learn that this is the biggest mistake of my life.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The MA version has _plenty _of foreplay.

I am off to play Monopoly with my best friend now. Something I would love to imagine Booth and Brennan playing. But who knew he was a fucking gambling addict? Grrr!

I apologise for any mistakes on this. My Word/Works crapped out and I had to use WordPad. Sorry!


	22. Bed of Roses

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Rating: **Still an M.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the encouragement for the last chapter. I am glad you liked it!

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Angela looks at me strangely. Perhaps I am imagining it. I have an unshakable paranoia that I have '_Just fucked_' written in scarlet across my forehead. Normally this wouldn't bother me, because she is my best friend and we do share everything. But I didn't just sleep with anyone. It was _Booth_ and it was the best sex I have ever had in my entire life. _Ever_.

"Good morning," I say to her, shifting my folders from one arm to the other. "Congratulations on identifying our Jane Doe. We were almost ready to give up altogether." She follows me along the corridor, her eyes watching every emotion play on my face. I hope I am impassive.

"It wasn't hard," she says slowly. "I saw her picture on my milk carton. It's difficult to eat corn-flakes when the woman you've been drawing over and over again for the past week is staring back at you." I smile a little, congratulating her again. Perhaps I continue to praise her job well done she'll quit looking at me with such suspicious eyes. "You've had sex," she says when she reach my office. I glance through the glass and Booth is sitting on the floor, flipping through a manila folder.

"No," I say, shaking my head. When she opens her mouth to speak again, I raise my finger. "No, Angela. You're mistaken." She narrows her eyes, flicking her gaze to Booth, who notices our presence. When he smiles, she feigns indifference and waves exuberantly. "When he was shot," I say to her, reaching for her arm, "the shooter left a foot-print. Not even a partial. He's getting sloppy now, Angela and for Booth's sake as well as my own, I need to concentrate on that, okay?" My friend nods. "Good… thank you." She nods again.

"Yes, but you so did it!" I glare at her. "Okay honey I am the epitome of discretion," she winks and I shake my head. Discretion my ass! Angela will have Hodgins and Zach alerted to this change in my relationship with Booth by lunch time. "So… any leads on the footprint?" I heave a sigh.

"Not yet. The sole matches a boot brand called _Xtreme_ _Terrain _but otherwise, no. It's a popular enough make sold in hardware and hiking stores across the city." Angela crosses her arms beneath her breasts.

"Something will come up. Like you said, he's getting sloppy…" I hear a glimmer of hope in her voice. "Has there been any hint of his presence?" I hold my folders against my chest, recalling the inexplicable feeling I have experienced all week that I am being watched. After a few moments I shake my head.

"No… he's been ominously quiet," I reply.

Booth looks up at me when I enter my office. He waits until Angela is gone, before he allows himself to smile. We woke up in bed together this morning. Wrapped around one and other and not at all frightened by it. We made love again before going to work, slow and languid until I thought we might be late. He prolonged my orgasm until I couldn't keep the waves of ecstasy away. I feel good, even now. My body trembles a little when I look at him.

"Hey…" he says, blinking slowly. I imagine he is undressing me.

"Hey," I reply, typing my password into my computer. "Is everything okay?" He chuckles and the sound arouses me like it never has before.

"Perfect," he says, and I know he's not responding to my question. "Bones?" I hum. "You know I want you, right?" I slip into my chair, folding my arms. His eyes linger on my cleavage and I grin.

"Yes, I know." I almost mention that Angela also knows, but I don't, because my phone vibrates in my pocket. I remove it, scanning my eyes over the message. My features obviously tell Booth all he needs to know, because when I set my phone down and stare at it for a long moment, he scrambles off the floor, snatching the device into his hand.

"_U whore._ _You're without honour. Time is almost up_," he reads, his eyes blazing with anger. "We'll trace the number, Bones. I'll have the Bureau find out who owns it. We'll get him… I promise." I shake my head numbly, wondering at how this bastard got my cell phone number and how he can possibly think he is a normal person.

Booth is barking orders into his own phone now, reciting the string of digits that have appeared on my cell. He listens silently for a long moment, and paces my office, window to wall, wall to window. I watch his stiff strides with a knotted stomach and pounding heart. What does he mean time is almost up? What does he plan on doing? Taking another shot a Booth like the cowardly lunatic he is?

"Right," Booth snaps, "fine." He disconnects the call and tosses his phone against my sofa, dragging his fingers through his hair. He tightens his hands into fists and spins, kicking my waste-paper trash can when he does. "The _fucking bastard_!" There have been no photos lately. Nothing to make us believe he's been around, watching. Yet neither of us ever believed he was gone. It was only a matter of time…

"No luck?"

"The card is a pay-to-use customer. He added credit to the phone this morning but paid cash. He's so clever, Bones. He knows how to remain hidden." Booth's words unnerve me and it shows, for he circles my desk and drops his hand to my shoulder. I should discourage his touch, especially here, but I cannot. I feel as though I am ready to admit that I need him. But he knows… I think he does.

We continue the rest of the day with a formal silence that consists purely in talking about work. When we leave together, Angela notices my mood and doesn't make any inappropriate quips.

When we reach my apartment, I feel as though I have no energy. I feel as though all my happiness has been sucked from my body and instead of being happy at what has transpired between us, I just feel like crawling into bed and not waking up until the bastard who's ruining my life is locked away in prison.

Booth presses his hand to my back and ushers me to my bedroom. He whispers that everything will be okay, that sooner or later this will have to end. I drop my eyes to the carpet and step into my bedroom.

The scent of sandalwood alerts me to the fact that something is wrong. I don't have sandalwood. When I lift my eyes, I see the nightmarish scene before me. Booth's hand has stilled on my back and I hear him exhale behind me. I know he is not responsible for this. That the dried crimson rose petals on my bed were not put there by him during a moment of romantic thoughts. I feel my stomach churn.

Scattered with the petals is more doctored images.

He's been here again.

He's been here and he's violated my bedroom, touched the very place where Booth and I made love. We have no sacred haven, anymore. It's been contaminated by his evil.

I feel my knees tremble, my emotions surge and then everything goes black.

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I hope everyone who was meant to received my MA version of the last chapter. InsaneGirl, if you are reading this, there was a problem with your account and the mail was returned to me. Sorry!


	23. When It's Over

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters in this story. Except Trevor. He's in my twisted imagination.

**A/N: **The response has been excellent, thank you. I've noticed that lots of people have been sick recently and I am wondering if maybe a vicious bug is targeting all the Bones fans? Anyway, I really hope everyone gets better soon!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I catch her before she hits the ground.

My arms snake around her waist and I cradle her against my chest, dragging her from the bedroom. The smell of sandalwood is sickening and I notice a burnt-out incense stick sitting on her dresser.

The bastard got in, again.

He's not willing to give up and I feel angrier now than I did when he shot me. Does he think it's acceptable? Turning a woman like Brennan into trembling, fainting wreck?

I brush my hand across her forehead, and her lashes flutter on her cheeks. I listen to the sound of her breathing, and wish I could protect her from all this. I feel as though I have failed her.

Brennan reaches out to me, her little hand squeezing around mine. Her eyes part, dazed and confused. "What happened?" When she tries to sit, I press my hand to her shoulder and encourage her to lie back. I know the instant she remembers the horror within her bedroom, for her eyes widen and her lower lip trembles a little when she sucks a breath into her lungs. "Sandalwood..." she whispers, trailing her fingers through her hair. "I'm allergic to sandalwood..."

"It's alright, Bones," I say, standing. I wonder at how he got into her apartment. He must know her. He must work at the Jeffersonian. She exhales and the sound of her single breath conveys to me that she cannot live with the violation any longer. I pace her living room, wondering at my anger and how, if he stood before me now, I could probably kill him. Without remorse. Without thought.

Brennan's hands shake and I am struck by the knowledge that she is _mine_ now. I reach for her, pulling her into my arms, steadying her body as she loses her balance. "Have you eaten today?" I ask her and she shakes her head against my chest. I know the text message that she received had left her shaken. That, coupled with the sandalwood allergy and the shock of knowing her bedroom was trespassed was obviously too much for her.

I pull my cell phone from my pocket and call the Bureau. I've had enough dancing around. I cannot watch as this woman, Temperance Brennan, is frightened and destroyed piece by piece. I wonder if I am being melodramatic. She would hate to know what thoughts run through my mind.

Forensic detectives are dispatched and I order Brennan to sit. She twists her hands, and I slip into her bedroom, throwing the window open. The summery evening air disturbs the sickening rosiness and permeating scent of sandalwood. I take in the sight of the photographs, the dried rose-petals, sprinkled like sick confetti across her bed.

I do not touch anything else in her room, because if I contaminated one piece of evidence that got this guy arrested, I wouldn't forgive myself.

Easing the door shut, I glance around her living room. This apartment, before the presence of the bastard who watches her, was her haven. This is the place where she felt comfortable and safe. What does she have now?

"Bones?" She glances up. "We're going to stay at my apartment tonight. Just until forensics get this mess cleared away..." she nods mutely.

Neither of us speak until three agents arrive and begin their examination of her bedroom. The recognise one of them as Timothy Peters and I pull him aside.

"We're leaving now. Dr Brennan has seen enough, I think," Peters nods. "Close the door behind you and make sure it's shut..." not that it will make any difference. "Call me the minute you find something, okay? The _minute_..." Peters lifts his hand.

"We'll call, Booth," he says.

* * *

Brennan sleeps on my bed. I never would have imagined it. But she does. Dressed in my old grey t-shirt, she's burrowed beneath the blanket, her hair sprawled across my pillow. I drink in the image of her. Of how she has soft curls at the base of her neck and how milky her skin is.

Setting aside my book, I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. When this is over...

When...

Will I ever be good enough at my job to catch him? So far we've been chasing our tail and all we have is a Nikon camera, the back view of our culprit, a letter and not a single fingerprint. All I have received for my efforts is a bullet to the shoulder and a perpetual headache that only eases when she is in my arms.

Temperance Brennan. She's astounding. I made love to her yesterday and again this morning and as I look at her now, I know I'll never get tired of seeing how beautiful she looks when she comes. I reach out and brush her hair away from her cheek, and her lashes flutter a little in sleep.

Slowly, I run my thumb over her lips and watch aptly how they part as if welcoming my touch. I feel her breath, moist and hot against my skin and my chest constricts painfully. I am amazed by her. I am captivated by the sight of her and by how much I feel when I look at her. When I observe her.

Flicking off the bedside lamp, I drape my arm over her waist and press my lips to the edge of her jaw. She tilts her head back in response and I catch the scent of her hair. Slipping my hand beneath the shirt she wears, I splay my fingers across her abdomen and revel in the warmth of her satin skin.

When this is over, I think again, I will never let her go. I will make this into the most special, meaningful relationship either of us have ever had.

As I begin to sleep, I realise it already is.

* * *

I hope everyone liked this chapter. Not very much has happened, but I have big plans for Brennan and Booth. There is much more angst to come. 


	24. A Profession

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **Bones belongs to Fox.

**Rating: **This story is rated M. If you're not into sex I wouldn't advise you to read.

**A/N: **I am _so_ happy that everyone is liking this, so far. I hope I can keep you here until the last word. Review, and let me know.

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_Four Weeks Later_

"Bones?" I start, spinning in my chair. Booth stands in the doorway, carrying two cups of coffee in his hands. He smiles at me. "You okay?" I press my fingers to my temples, half-nodding, half shrugging.

"It's like a hammer. I haven't felt like this in years!" I have allowed myself the odd complaint to Booth this past week. He's full of sympathy and kisses and I don't remember ever feeling so cared for, before. He sets coffee on my desk, and pushes the cup towards me a little.

"You've never been this stressed before," he reasons. "This bastard has been in your apartment twice this week..." I nod. I cannot understand it. The FBI have posted two agents during the day, covering my building. The back entrance to my complex is accessible to residents only. We only keep our trash cans out there, and no key is required, just a sequence of numbers that I know by heart.

1296

I've had my locks changed, _again_ and my keys are now clipped to my waist, all day. Booth was given a spare key which he keeps tucked into his inside pocket. And twice this week, he's left parcels and letters and photographs in my home. I feel sick, each time I approach my apartment door and Booth's mood deteriorates from the moment we leave the Jeffersonian.

This morning, he looks as though his mood won't even perk.

"Yeah... I know," I sigh uncapping my coffee and stirring into the blackened depths. "I feel ill all the time, Booth. As though my body is protesting every second I think about this... _bastard_." He touches my shoulder with his usual amount of kindness and concern. "How is he getting in...?" I ask, more to myself than to Booth. He rests against the edge of my desk, shaking his head. I sips his coffee, thrusting his hand into his pants pocket and removing his own keys.

He stares at the brass key between his fingers and I see his eyes narrow as he focuses on every ridge. After a long few moments, he tosses the key into the air and catches it deftly in his palm, his fingers tightening into a fist around it.

"We've been... so stupid..." he says, shaking his head. I snag the edge of his jacket and he turns to me, his knuckles white. "Twice we've had your locks changed, and it never occurred to either of us..." he's moving towards my office door.

Coffee forgotten, I move after him, into the lab and down the steps to the front door. He's mumbling to himself, shaking his head as though he is crazy. My head spins and I feel nauseated. What is he thinking?

"Booth?" He shoves open the front door and we step out into the July afternoon. I feel too hot and uncomfortable to enjoy the DC summer. These six weeks... which is essentially how long everything has been going on, have been the longest of my entire life.

"He's a locksmith, Bones." I halt, processing what my partner is saying. As the seconds pass, pieces of the jumbled jig-saw come together. What he says makes so much sense that I almost want to kick myself. Why hadn't we made this logical leap? There was _no_ other way he could have gotten into my apartment.

I force my legs to move and I race after him.

Booth drives recklessly. He always has. But today, his driving almost gets us swiped, twice. Once by an 18-wheeler truck. I dig my fingernails into my thighs, wondering at how I feel a sickening nervousness as we approach my building. He continues to talk, his voice rising a notch whenever he speaks of the man who has been destroying my life, day by day.

"We have to hope that he still works as a locksmith," Booth says. "If he does, we can check all trained locksmiths in DC and compare them to the one picture we have of him." He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers. I see the hope in his eyes, and pray we haven't stumbled upon another dead end.

We signal to the FBI agents that they can leave. The two men, stationed in a black sedan, look relieved and drive away. I slip from Booth's SUV and race into my building with a renewed sense of anger and determination. Booth is behind me. We don't wait for the elevator, pounding up the stairs. My breath catches in my lungs, as we near my door, I think I might be sick.

"He's here..." I whisper, gesturing to my door which lies ajar. Booth removes his weapon, and we move towards my apartment. I grip the door frame, and Booth presses his foot to the door. It's propelled inward, hitting the wall with an almighty crash. Booth steps in first and I release the frame to step in next to him.

I'm halted by the sound of ceramic crashing and Booth's gun falls from his hand. It skitters across the floor and my partner holds his head. He wavers to the right and tumbles to his knees, blood coating his fingers. I cry out, crouching beside him. Before me, a figure crouches, snags the gun and levels the barrel at my head.

I look up, Booth's unmoving body cradled in my arms.

I see him for the first time.

He has the coldest most unseeing eyes. Eyes that have seen everything in my life for God knows how long.

"Get up, Temperance. Get up now, or I'll shoot you both."

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I promise I will update tomorrow. I promise!


	25. The Hardest Thing

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Rating: **This is an M rated fan-fic.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters. They belong to so many people… but not me.

**A/N: **Well, I never expected so many reviews for the last chapter! I am so glad you guys like this so far. I slept _so_ badly last night. You have no idea. I just kept wondering what way to write this chapter - because throughout all the other chapters I was improvising, I made a lot up as I went along. But I had plans for this one since last week. I hope it works for you…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_The Hardest Thing…_

I cannot see anything. My head pounds in the worse headache I have ever had. When I turn my head, an electric jolt of pain shoots through my temples, and I wince. Through the incessant banging, I hear muffled sobs to my right and I prise my eyes open. The foggy light hits my retina, and a dizziness sweeps over me. Images blur before me, and I try to reach my hand out to steady myself. But my arms do not respond or, they try to, and for some reason, they cannot.

I taste the metallic flavour of blood on my tongue, and swallow hard. It's now that I remember what happened to me, and instead of being overcome with dizziness, I am overcome with panic. Pure, raw panic.

The muffled sobbing is louder now, more desperate. I force myself to focus, trying to feel around with my bound hands. I feel rough concrete behind me. My fingers touch upon the ties which bind me, coarse, rough rope.

As I open my eyes again, everything is marginally clearer. I see metal rafters above my head, corrugated iron roofing and all around me I see concrete walls. I mentally groan at the guy's lack of originality. A warehouse?

Ahead, where I catch a glimmer of striking light, I see a pile of crates marked _Export Only_ that block the only exit. I'd never make it. Below me, I smell dirt. Dried earthy dirt that comes with boots treading the concrete day in and day out. This isn't just a warehouse. It's still in use. The bastard didn't even pick a derelict building to hold us hostage.

I am aware now, of nothing but the sobs and I shift around, the indistinct image of her is enough to make my chest tighten. She's hunched over, bound, like me. As my eyes adjust to the new scene, I see that her blouse has been torn away and she wears only a strapped under shirt. Her arms are looped over her knees and her wrists bleed from the rope tied around them.

He's hurt her. He bastard has hurt her!

I jerk, trashing wildly until a boot impacts my back and fall forward, my chin hitting the dirt. I taste more blood, but I ignore it, groaning loudly. He's gagged me, I cannot speak, I cannot reach out to her or reassure her that I won't let him hurt her. It would be a lie, anyway. I am powerless to do anything.

"Don't move unless I tell you to." I hear his voice far above my head, and he lifts his foot, pressing the sole to my head. "If you do, I'll crush your skull in, do you understand?" I nod, tense, not doubting for a second that he'd do it. I lift my eyes, and I see her looking at me. She's burrowed her head into her knees, but her eyes look directly at me. Her pupils are massive, afraid. I notice how her fingers tremble and her dirt caked cheeks are stained with tears. "Get up," I feel fingers curl around my collar and he yanks me from the floor. My arms instinctively reach out towards her. But she's too far away.

She leaps towards me, stumbling and falling when she does. I see the fear in her eyes and I want to kill the bastard who has done this to her. Her hands break her fall, and I notice that her legs are bound at her ankles. When she lifts her palms, I see the bloody grazes and I thrash my foot impacting the man's right shin. He kicks me, behind my knee and I stumble.

He releases my collar and pounds his toe into my ribs. My fingers curl into fists and my teeth bite against the cloth inside my mouth. I see his face now. I imagined he'd look like a psychopath, but he does not. Apart from his eyes, deranged and filled with so much hatred, be looks like an average guy. The normality of his features disturbs me. He could have passed me a hundred times in the past month and I wouldn't have made the leap that he was the person watching her.

He grabs my hair and pulls my head back until I think my neck might snap. "You thought you could touch her…" he whispers, his nails digging into my scalp. "She's not yours…" I can hear her weeping and my heart constricts. He pulls off my gag, tossing it aside. His eyes burn with a fierceness. I know he'd kill me. "You think you love her…" He kicks me a final time, moving off towards her. I see her recoil, trying to shift away from him. He reaches for her, taking her bound wrists into his hands and pulling her off the floor. When he does, she lifts her foot and kicks the top of his thigh. He stumbles backward, and she swings her arms back, as though she's holding a golf-club, and brings her fisted hands down on his nose. I near a crack, and see the blood.

He reacts, lightening fast, pulling his hand back and bringing it down on her cheek. The slap resounds around throughout the warehouse and I kick my legs again, wishing I wasn't so far away. He fucking slapped her. He touched her. I feel an anger that is unparalleled. "You fucking _bastard_!" I cry out, finding my voice now that I no longer wear a gag.

He touches his nose with his fingers, examining the wet blood. "You're feisty," he says, pushing her shoulders until she stumbles backwards. I see her back hit the wall and she cries out, the sound lost amidst the gag she wears. "I just hope you're as feisty when I'm fucking you," the words make my stomach churn. "You think he loves you…" he spits, crouching beside her. His blood drips unto her undershirt and I see her disgust. He reaches out, bringing his fingers inches away from her breast. I almost heave. "I'm going to get rid of him, and then I'll have you."

He stands, moving towards me. "Get up," he says, and I don't dare disobey. I see the only weapon around, and it's tucked into his waistband. He ushers me along the warehouse, to the operations room at the bottom, near the doorway. When he shoves me into the little room, I expect him to leave. But he doesn't. He closes the doors and sits on the bench, watching me with contempt I have never seen before.

"I can't believe she'd fall for an arrogant jerk like you," he says at last. I shuffle against a row of filing cabinets. "To think she actually believes you love her…" I half nod. If he leaves me alone in here, he'll most certainly rape her. I need to do something, now. Anything. I have to be in the warehouse again.

"I know," I say, shaking my head. "I can't believe it either. All I wanted was sex, but she's a typical woman… always thinking there is more to it." I feel blood trickle from the place where he hit me with the lamp. Maintaining an even voice is extraordinarily difficult. "I don't even know why I am here." He blinks slowly.

"You don't love her?" He asks, his tone biting, accusing. I shake my head.

"No way." My stomach knots at my lie. When he stands to open the door, I know he's going to lock me in here. "Can I tell her?" I imagine that what I am doing is so obvious, but his expression remains impassive, and eventually, he shrugs.

"You want to crush her spirit?" He asks, the door half open, now.

"I was brought up a good Catholic. I wouldn't want to maintain a lie." After a few seconds, he reaches out, tugging on my collar again. I feel my entire body ache, and my throat tightens. When he shoves me forward, I almost lose my balance. I waddle to where she sits, her watery eyes show surprise when she sees me standing before her. I know she imagined the worst.

The few minutes he gives me to tell her this lie are all I have to so something.

"Bones…" I say, barely looking at her. "I'm sorry…" her eyes bore into me, side and confused. I crouch, knowing that he stands behind me, towering over us, smug and satisfied at the thought of me breaking her heart. "I shouldn't be here," I say gritting my teeth. I look angry, as though I am infuriated by her. I'm not. I hate the words that are coming from my mouth.

"This guy is going to kill me, for something that's not even true." Brennan's nostrils flare and I see her eyes are moist. "He thinks I love you," I say, shaking my head slowly. "I don't. I don't want this shit, anymore, Bones."

It breaks my heart, watching how tears spill over her eyelids unto her cheeks. She looks betrayed. She opened her heart, her soul, to me and I kneel before her, shattering her trust into a pieces. I drop my eyes to the floor, willing myself to focus. I need to get us out of here. "He's welcome to you," I say, standing. I stumble backwards a little, and exhale.

Despite there being no truth in my words, pretending not to love this woman is the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

The bastard behind me grabs my collar, and begins to drag me away. I lunge forward, my legs falling away from beneath me. I hook my bound feet behind his legs, and he stumbles, releasing my collar. I twist on my descent, watching as his body comes down on top of me. I move my bounds hands, my fingers fumbling over the gun in his waistband.

He reacts at once, trying to pull away, his fingers closing around my throat.

I have the gun, my gun, in my hands and the barrel is pressed to his torso. He leaps away, trying to reach for it. My finger barely closes around the trigger, but the moment I feel the metal against my skin, I pull, and an explosion rings and echoes throughout the warehouse.

He falls back, a shock glazing the insanity I see within his eyes. His mouth opens and closes as though he wants to say something. I get to my feet, standing above him and I think of all the things he's done. To her. I think of the letter, of the CD, of the photographs, the rose petals, I think of him shooting me, and trying to touch her and how I was forced to lie to her, and how I had to watch her heart break.

And I do something that is against protocol. Against the law.

I shoot him again.

Until he stops breathing.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do,

To look you in the eye

And tell you I don't love you,

It's the hardest thing I'll ever have to lie.

To show no emotion,

When you start to cry…

_The Hardest Thing_

_This is the last full chapter of this story. Next up, is the epilogue… and then it's all over. I am so sad._


	26. Epilogue: Over

**Title: **A Dangerous Aficionado

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters. They belong to Fox.

**Rating: **The story is rated M.

**A/N: **So my story is now complete. I have totally loved writing this. I hope you have liked reading it just as much. Thank you to every single person who reviewed this. I wouldn't have done it, had it not been for you guys.

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An EMT checks out my cuts and bruises and comments that, compares to Booth, I got off with few injuries.

"He's fractured his rib," I hear one of them say, looking harassed. "Judging by his shoulder, he was shot recently, too." I drop my eyes to the ground, recalling his words. I know now, that it wasn't true. But the hurt I had felt when he said it almost crushed me. I felt as though someone was squeezing their fist around my heart.

I see him, passing his hand over his rib cage and I wonder at how much love I feel for him. He saved my life. Our life. How many times does he have to do this?

I see a body bag, carried from the warehouse and I speculate as to why I feel no sorrow for the dead man inside. Instead of feeling remorse for Booth taking his life, I feel relief and a small amount of satisfaction. I hope it doesn't make me a bad person.

The EMT presses a stethoscope to my chest, and listens, to my ribs, to my back and finally pulls away. "You're both so lucky to be alive," he says, dropping the stethoscope into his bag. I nod.

"I know. But you're right, Booth got it worse than me." The man looks at me, and smiles a little. "Are we done here?" I slip out of the ambulance and move across the parking lot to where Booth stands, his shirt pulled up to expose the violent bruising beneath.

He looks up at me, then drops his gaze immediately. I see the pain there. I know he had to say what he said, but it doesn't stop the shock reverberating through by body. He never told me he did love me. But I had always assumed…

"Hi," he says, dropping his shirt.

"You okay?" I slip my hand beneath the cloth, passing my fingertips over his ribcage. He winces, his grasping my wrist. I stiffen.

"Hurts…" he says. "Look… Bones…" I shake my head.

"It doesn't matter," I say dismissively. He stares at me now, his mouth a grim line. I mentally recall everything we've went through, every moment he's been at my apartment and I wonder, now that it's over, where do we go from here? Are my nights of comfort over? I've never experienced sex like I have with Booth. He's passionate and considerate and I don't want to let it go.

"Yes it does," he replies, slipping his arm around my waist. He pulls me against him, and I hear his sharp intake of breath when my ribs bang his. "It matters so damn much," he murmurs into my hair. My arms snake around him, and I inhale him. I need him - like I've never need someone before. There's no one watching me now, and yet I still need his protection.

"Yes…" I agree softly. "It does." I open my mouth to speak, again, but Booth slips away from me. When I turn, one of the FBI agents is walking towards us, carrying an evidence bag with a wallet inside.

He stops before us, and holds it up for Booth's inspection. "His name was Trevor Irvin. Check out his address," he points to the ID card, nestled inside the open wallet. Booth and I stare at it for a long time, and I feel a new wave of sickness.

"He lived across the street!" Booth growls, snatching the bag from the agent's hand. "The whole time, the bastard was looking through you're _window_?" I inhale, willing the nausea away. It's over now. Over.

When we're alone, I turn to Booth, who clutches the plastic bag with white knuckles. He stares at me for a long moment, then sets it aside. When he touches me, I know everything will be alright. His fingers stroke my hair, caked in dirt and blood. Around us, federal agents, EMTs and policemen buzz, and in the far distance, workers that had heard the gunshot have congregated, intrigued. But he doesn't move away, and he isn't embarrassed by how we receive curious stares. I choose to be oblivious, because I want him to hold me.

He brushes his lips over mine, mumbling illegible words. I lean into him, as his tongue probes my mouth. He tastes a million times better than I remember. And he only kissed me this morning. His hands move over my back, his fingers stroking the hair at the base of my neck. I tremble against him.

"Bones…?" I ignore him, clinging to him, kissing him as though it's the most important thing in my life. I think at this moment, it is. He is. "Bones, I didn't mean it…" I nod, barely acknowledging his words. "I really do… I do…" He bundles me into the tightest embrace, and all the technicalities disappear. Where do we go from now? How can our relationship survive? What if he dies?

I stop questioning, for the first time in my life. I stop analysing. I just exist.

"I know," I whisper. "I do too."

It's over.

Finally over.

And now Booth and I can finally begin.

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What am I going to write about now? I guess I will have to start brain-storming! Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope you liked it.


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